Bash n' Stuff

So yeah, I went to the Bash. Yeah, I had a great time, and yeah, I drank a goodly bit.

Now I was never in contention for the Golden Barfbucket Lewey Award, unlike Drizz or F-Train or the Mr. Drunken September, TripJax, but by my estimation I consumed 2.5 gallons of PBR over the course of Saturday.

I'm still pissing every five minutes and it's almost a week later.

So I'm sitting there, buzzed and sweaty (humidity is hell on the portly), attempting to play Chinese Poker with Jordan, Wolf and Tripjax/Soxwife (which consisted of Trip looking at cards, handing them to Soxwife and her setting his hands) when I feel something cold and solid bounce off my head. Twice.

"John!" I vaguely hear, and finally realize that someone is trying to get my attention by throwing ice at me.

I did mention I'd been drinking, right?

I turn around and there's Gavin sitting at the table behind me, with two folks I don't know.

"Come over here."

Okay. Not far to lurch/stagger, so I manage okay.

"Dude, these guys are just sitting over here in the corner and they don't know anybody. So I figured we'd introduce ourselves."

So Gavin and I proceed to hang with a couple of folks that work with BigMike and Al. The guy is an avid reader of Al's blog, and his lady friend didn't really know what she was in for coming to this party. But she was game for whatever. Especially after we informed her that Gavin was the 3rd sexiest eligible male poker player (as voted on by some internet poll), not to mention the 11th best HORSE player in the world (as of this year's WSOP).

A little while later Gavin meanders off for more booze and I explain that he really is kind of a big deal in the poker world, and she exclaims "oh, I need to get his autograph for my son! He watches poker on TV all the time and wants to know if he can get a scholarship to go to college and play poker." I respond that I think poker may very well pay for his college education if he does it right, or obviate the need for college otherwise, but the upshot of it was that she got Gavin to autograph a dollar for her kid, and bemoaned the fact that her son wasn't a little older, or she'd get Gavin to sign her breast instead.

Well, you can imagine how that was recieved. Positive would be an understatement. So the topic turned to one of my personal favorites, boobies. Notably hers. You see, our friend was very proud of her boobs. As well she should be, since they were apparently expensive. And fine work was performed, too. And sometimes, even in the grownup world, things just fall into place and bullshit lines work that haven't really worked since college. So out they come on the flop and Gavin bets the turn like a true World Class Player.

Gavin - "You know, they look good, but I can't really tell anything unless I feel one."

Nice lady - "Ok, go ahead."

Gavin - "I think I need to feel them both to be sure."

Nice lady - "Ok, go ahead."

Gavin to Bracelet - "Bobby, come over here, you gotta feel these things!"

Bobby - "Ok"

And that, ladies, is how they roll. I admit no culpability in boob-grabbing or evaluating. But the lady definitely got her money's worth. And while the Bracelet claimed to have been able to feel a little something silicone in there, the other judges, upon further evaluation, overruled the junk-wielder.

And then for some reason, in a totally disconcerting moment, I turn my head to the right, and there's Drizz. Not that Drizz is particularly disconcerting in his own right, but the fact that he had his ass in the air and his pants around his knees made it a little more unusual than the typical drunken Drizz encounter.

"Hi Drizz."

"Hi"

"What are you doing?"

"Look at my boxers!"

And indeed, plastered across Drizz's ass were the words Mix it Up! And across the front was the iconic image of Captain Morgan, foot on cask.

"Dude, does your wife know you're going around showing everyone your Captain Morgan underwear?"

"She gave me a free pass for the weekend, and she bought me the boxers, so she must want me to show them off."

It was kinda like Underoos for grownups, a booze-superhero version of the Spiderman Underoos I had when I was a kid. So here I am in Malvern, PA on a September Saturday night sitting next to an overeducated woman who's just had her boob job evaluated by several degenerate poker players while she's drinking trailer park wine (White Zinfandel for the curious), while another degenerate named after a fictional elf in a series of D&D novels shows us his alcoholic underpants. That shit just does not happen every day. Unless you're Pauly, then it happens every day and twice on Sundays.

That's why I love my friends. Not to mention the several generous offers to fly my wife to PA after her holdup Friday night and several other generous offers to make the perpetrators disappear if I found out their identities. Thanks, guys.