Taekwon-NO

Freaky here, just arrived back in the Windy City after yet another eventful weekend back in the 'Bus. Actually, to say it was "eventful" is a bit of an understatement considering what took place over the course of the past 36 hours. But first things first: Go Mavs! Now, to provide some exposition about the weekend, the Dude's girl graduated this weekend from OSU and she had a graduation party at her farm on Saturday. So of course, I'm not going to pass up on an opportunity to drink ... outside ... on a farm. But let's rewind back to Friday night because it set the tone for the remainder of the weekend. I arrived around midnight and met up with the crew as they were a couple bars into their "Sorry For Partying" bar crawl (More like Sorry, I'm Not Sorry For Partying). I walk in to the said tributary and the Dude and Murdoch, without hesitation, begin chanting the proverbial, "America needs farmers, we don't need you!" I know what you're thinking and yes, that chant is the name our crew's own road map to recovery for America (the "you" is directed at the French).

I digress.

Fast forward a couple hours and many drinks and we find ourselves at the usual night cap watering hole. Generally we have an unwritten checklist when the crew ventures out (it is a living document and subject to change). Avril Lavigne's "Complicated." Check. Jackson 5's "ABC." Check. Miller High Life. Check. Girl crying. Check. Eliciting a response via a chant. No Check. The whole gang is sitting outside watching the wasted talent leave the bar with some bro-ed out frat boy when one couple in particular begin fighting. We were on top of our game that night and pounced on this effin golden opportunity. So naturally, we begin chanting, "She's gunna win! She's gunna win! She's gunna win!" Well, homeboy didn't appreciate our commentary and turned at gave us the old, "I'm gunna act tough so my girl thinks I'm not a vagina when in reality I shave my arms!" He then proceeded to raise his middle finger and judging from the size of it, he probably has some other issues to deal with. Regardless, the bro left in a flurry of frustration and the crew scored another victory in the fight against the Axis of Broskis. That pretty much concluded the night and we went back to our respective places to get some rest for what was going to be an epic Saturday.

Seven hours and 10 Triscuits later, Murdoch, Murdoch's woman and myself went to the all-time greatest bar of all time, the Hiz Hey, for an afternoon bloody mary and a quick chat with our favorite bartender. We begin our 45 minute trek out to the party riding in a jeep with the top down rocking out to Rebecca Black's Grammy worthy hit song "Friday." So for the next five or six hours we drank a lot of libations, ate a ton of brisket and lounged outside and enjoyed the remarkable view of rural Ohio. I also learned how to put the top of a jeep on, so yes ladies, I now can do it all ... except crochet. So we eventually ventured back to German Village and Murdoch and I headed to the Hiz Hey to close out the night.

MAVS WIN! MAVS WIN! Any player that looks like their team's mascot should be required to play for them ... I'm looking at you Chris Bosh, you Bosharaptor!

ANYWAY, Murdoch and I are sitting in the booth drinking some Budweisers when two poofs move a pool table which clearly was out of use. So our favorite bartender gives them a quick scolding; however, it doesn't seem to deter the two cardigan poster boys. So they finish their round of awfully played pool, actually they're so bad, they don't finish and leave the bar without moving the table back, apologizing to the bartender or at the very least clearing the table of the balls. So, seeing this I go outside and ask them to move it back and in their defense, they amicably agreed. Murdoch and I agree to help so we don't further damage the table and was three of us logically begin to the table from underneath, the fourth decides to try and grab the silver plate at the corner of the table. This genius move prompts Murdoch to still say, "Pick it up from the bottom like a man." Boom. Roasted.

A couple hours pass by and Murdoch and I have migrated back over to the bar when we order some BBQ pork rinds to munch on. We are lounging at the end of the bar when we see this tight shirted, frat boy talking to this chick right next us. Judging from her facial expressions it seemed as if she was pretty annoyed by the Jersey Shore wannabe, so I leaned over to Murdoch and said, "She definitely isn't going home with him tonight." Now, I guess I said it a little too loud because he leans over and snarkily asks me, "What did you say?" My mother has always told me to speak when spoken to and answer questions, so I responded, verbatim, what I had just said to Murdoch. Homeboy didn't like this too much. At this point, he perked up his chest like a peacock and said, "Do you know who I am?" Refusing to answer with the natural smartass response, I say no I don't think so. In which he responds with, "I won the gold medal in taekwondo in the Olympics for the U.S." I'm going to venture that he didn't, but this was too awesome, so I congratulate him for winning the medal and smile prompting his lady friend to laugh and eventually walk out. So three douchebags down and a couple more to go before we claim the weekend battle a victory. To cap off the night, Murdoch and I were in our same seats when some drunken fool decides to take off Murdoch's hat twirl it around and put it back on and then sets his sights on my Hawaiian lei. Clearly looking very annoyed, our favorite bartender comes over and tells them that it's time to leave and get out as he is bothering her "regulars." Yes, that's right. We are now protected under the Patron Protection Act of 1938 and let me tell you, when you are considered a regular, then you know you've made it.

And so, the night ended, Murdoch and I walked home and he made me some awesome potatoes and sausage. I once again fell asleep watching a shitty movie on Encore and woke up with yet another pounding headache, a sure sign that the night was a success. Well until next weekend friends, remember, don't piss with the toilet seat down and when life throws you a curveball, don't swing, life will most likely throw you a fastball the next pitch because everyone knows you don't swing at a first pitch curveball.

Cheers!