Tuesday, December 30, 2003

A Merry Messy Christmas!

They say you can have too much of a good thing. I personally never understood that. I say “Everything in Excess! Moderation is for Monks!” How can there be such a thing as too much scotch? What about garlic? Who could ever honestly say that you can have too much garlic?

I guess the girl I took to senior prom could…and Lestat…but besides them….

Anyway, this holiday taught me the true definition of “too much of a good thing.” Families are good, right? Well I have four.

Four fucking families.

Actually more like six, but I only saw four of them this Christmas.

Here they are, in no particular order:

Red’s Parents and Siblings
My mother, stepfather, and siblings
My father, stepmother, aunts and uncles
Me, Red, and the cats

Here it is, the “KOTWF, Red, & Company Schedule For Manic Holiday Madness!”

Dec. 23rd : Faux Christmas Eve
7:00am Arrive at work, ready to fly through the day and have everything done so that I can be out of there and at my dad’s house by 4:00
12:00pm Realize that I’m completely fucked and will probably have to work late
4:30pm Raise the bar in the “Who Can String Together The Best Series Of Curse Words Contest” we have going at the office by using the phrases “Rat Piss Cancer Fuck,” “Grey-Turded,” and “Scat-Porn Watching” in the same sentence. Throw something and storm out of the office with a shout of “You can all burn in hell. Have a Merry Fucking Christmas!”
5:15pm Arrive at Dad’s an hour and fifteen minutes late, and three shots behind. Catch up in 5 minutes using flaming shots of 151.
5:20pm Borrow stepmother’s makeup pencil to draw singed eyebrows back on. Make mental note to blow out shots from now on.
5:45pm Finish applying burn cream, return to bar
8:00pm Stumble to table, gorge self on goose, sirloin, oyster stuffing, and scotch-cream. Drink a little more.
9:30pm Sit down to a calm family game of Trivial Pursuit.
11:00pm Stand up, shout obscenities, kick Trivial Pursuit board across room and go back into the bar to finish my Christmas Eve Vigil.

Dec. 24th : Real Christmas Eve; Faux Christmas Day

7:00am Open one eye, sit up, smack head into invisible, rum-induced wall of pain. Lurch towards coffee maker.
8:00am Finally realize where I am.
8:15am Red, Dad, Stepmom, Siblings all come into kitchen. They don’t look much better than me.
8:30am Open first bottle of champagne. Day is looking up.
8:45am Begin opening presents. Got a great power-tool set. Become excited about tools then realize that this proves I am getting old.
12:00pm Leave dad’s and go home.
12:30pm Arrive at home. Realize that I still have hours of wrapping to do. Open a bottle of champagne.
3:00pm Go to hospital to visit Grandmother who has pneumonia. Realize that being sick has not stopped her from being able to talk non-stop.
4:20pm Arrive at Mom’s house late for her annual Christmas Eve Party. Realize with horror that the party is dry.
5:00pm Remember the half bottle of rum in my trunk. Run out to my car giggling like Michael Jackson in a candy store.
8:00pm Off to Red’s parents. THEY HAVE RUM TOO!!!!
10:00pm Home again! Now I can start really drinking.
12:30am Red and I go to sleep.
1:00am Wake up to make sure that Santa has filled Red’s Stocking. Damn is it heavy!
2:00am Wake up again to make sure that the heavy stocking has not fallen from the mantle.
3:00am Ditto
4:00am Ditto
5:00am This is getting old. Decide to start a pot of coffee and open a bottle of Champagne, which brings us to:

Dec 25th : Christmas Day
5:30am Open another bottle of champagne
6:00am Start drinking coffee with rum, to save champagne for Red.
6:15am Start cooking eggs and bacon.
6:30am Wake Red up. Get bitched at for half an hour because I have the balls to wake her at 6:30 on Christmas morning. Hear her use the phrase “Jesus Fucking Christ” which strikes me as incredibly funny on this day in particular.
7:00am Finish breakfast. Open Stockings. Santa Brought Red, that’s right, another bottle of champagne!
8:00am Arrive at mom’s. Begin opening presents.
12:30pm Arrive at dad’s for presents with extended family.
2:30pm Arrive home. That champagne Santa brought is probably cold by now.
2:35pm Yup. It’s cold. It’s pretty damn good too.
4:00pm Arrive at Red’s parents for Christmas dinner and more presents.
5:00pm If I smoke all of these cigars that I got, I will immediately die of lung cancer. The only consolation is that I won’t have to wait for my liver to go first.
5:30pm Open huge poster of the Rat Pack. This makes me very happy for some reason.
6:00pm Eat still more stuff.
10:00pm Finally arrive home. Collapse in fetal position on living room floor. Refuse to be touched by anything citing “Yuletide Over-Stimulation” as my reason.
10:30pm Begin crying when I realize that I have to be at work at 7:00am the next day.

God Bless us, Everyone!

Monday, December 15, 2003

That's Not So Bad

Well, so far she has only found a problem with everything I've ever done. And I thought this audit would suck.

At least she brought lube...

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

Did I Mention That I'm Fucked?

Red's been out-of-commission with a particularly nasty case of the flu, so I've had plenty of time for introspection. While she lay on the couch moaning, drinking nasty-red-menthol-smelling-ass-tasting-heart-stopping-ball-crushing-flu-medicine-shit and watching 17 back-to-back episodes of Law and Order: The Early Years, I was staring at the wall in my office, railing silently against fate, fortune, and Pat Sajak, downloading every episode I could find of SNL Celebrity Jeopardy, and refusing to work. And here's why:

I don't know where to start!

I have a two day audit next week of EVERYTHING I have done for the last year. This auditor is going to dig through files, interview employees, read reports, wash behind my ears, and give me a really thorough prostate exam, without a reacharound. And this has me a little stressed out. You see, it's not like I haven't been doing my job for the last year, because I have. It's just that when it comes down to it, and you know someone has 16 hours to dig into every little detail, you just know they are going to find the "T" you didn't dot, the "Eyes" you didn't cross, and your secret stash of Forbidden Farm Girl Sex Acts (take that Google!).

So, now I'm scrambling around, trying to fit another year's worth of work into five days. How do I do it? Chex Mix, Ramen, Gin, Espresso, and a constant loop of that obnoxious song "He's Going the Distance" by Cake.

With any luck, I'll have a total breakdown and be committed before Monday.

Thursday, December 04, 2003

The Service Sucks, But the Floor Show is Great!

“I know John Bobbit!”

This was how she introduced herself to me, as she stumbled from her place at the bar, lurching unsteadily toward my inner thigh.

“What?” I said.

“You know! John Bobbit. The Dick-Cut-Off-Guy.”

“Yes,” I said, “I know who John Wayne Bobbit is.”

“I don’t just know who he is, I know him!” she replied as her hand came to rest just a few inches from my wedding tackle. I glanced at Red, to make sure that she was not becoming angered at this woman’s unwarranted advances.

Red had her own problems. The hand that wasn’t digging its nails into my leg was massaging Red’s chest. Suddenly this was a more interesting conversation than I thought.

“How do you know John Bobbit?” I asked.

“They don’t believe me!” she shouted towards a couple of people sitting at the bar. Ah yes, the wonderful logic of tequila shots was working its magic on her already fragile brain. “I’m from West Palm Beach. Do you believe me?”

“Of course I do. How did you meet him?”

“After his wife or girlfriend or whatever did the choppity-chop on his Johnson, he got that prosthetic, or extender or whatever.”

“I thought he just had it stitched back on, I didn’t think it was prosthetic.”

“What the fuck do you know?” she snapped, “Anyway, he had his dingus stapled back on and then the first place he ever showed off his frankencock was at a strip club that my friend owns in West Palm Beach. I don’t know what’s so special about it though. He can’t even get hard now! Did I tell you I’m from West Palm Beach?”

“No.” I said solemnly.

Red couldn’t take it anymore and began laughing so hard that she couldn’t breath. She actually began to squeak as she struggled for air, and her face began to turn purple. That’s when the drunk began yelling, “Help! Help! She can’t breath! She’s having a heart attack. Somebody come do CPR! Somebody call 911. I’ll give her boyfriend mouth-to-mouth!”

This didn’t help Red. She began squeaking and laughing so hard that she fell out of her chair. That’s when people starting thinking that maybe she really did need CPR. The fact that I was laughing at her only made me look like a callous asshole (which I am) and it took quite a bit of reassuring through my guffaws to stop the bartender from calling an ambulance.

I finally managed pry her hand off of my thigh, and she lumbered off toward the bar to fetch another cocktail. On the way, she coughed so hard that she almost fell over, and righted herself only by grabbing the arm of a passing man and pulling herself up. In the process, she knocked him from his feet. She also spun around and landed back in Red’s lap, where she proceeded to use both hands and Red’s chest to bring herself back to full-upright. This started another laughing fit that nearly ended with the paramedics.

She talked about John Wayne Bobbit for about ten more minutes, but didn’t say anything new. Finally, she put her cigarette out in my martini, pulled the Christmas tree in the lobby over on herself, and left the building.

God I love my town.