The Weekend of Al

One of the reasons I like this newfangled blog thing (even if, from time to time, it makes me feel like Doogie Howser) is that it can provide me with a glimpse into my past. Say, in three years, I wonder what I did the final weekend of August in both 2005 and 2006, after a few quick clicks of the mouse (good name for a progressive rock album: “A Few Quick Clicks of the Mouse”), I would find out that I was at a boat race on both of those weekends. Then I would wonder aloud “boat races?” Then I’d probably have a beer.

A few weeks ago, The Lady Friend told me that over the first weekend of January she’d be making her annual girly pilgrimage to Kansas City in order to hang out with some of her college friends and drink cosmos, watch crappy TV, gossip, and (presumably) menstruate.

“Cool,” I said. “Have fun.”

Then I got suspicious [I assume she’s cheating on me and is only marrying me for my money. After our wedding ceremony, I will suspiciously drown in a snorkeling accident and she and her Ecuadorian lover Pablo will sail the seas, making passionate love in the cabin of the boat my life insurance policy paid for and using my ashes to scrub the calluses of their feet (all of that salt water is bad for their feet.)] and consulted my blog for what exactly was going on over the first weekend in January last year, to which I found this entry:

What's on tap for this weekend? Well, The Lady Friend is hoping a train to Kansas City, leaving me up to my own devices (and by devices I mean not wearing pants, cooking up a batch of my award-winning-world-famous "Adam Vinatieri Chili", drinking whiskey, and watching playoff football.)

So, I guess she was telling the truth (this time). Anyway, with her out of the apartment for the weekend, I was all set to have myself a big old time once again, with more whiskey, more chili, more football, and even less pants. Plus, I got a new college basketball game in the mail the other day; I was planning on building Southern Illinois University into a National Champion.

I was even going to write a few articles that have been on the backburner for a few months now -- I need an evening of alone time to write an article [In case you were wondering, my process for writing articles is:

1) Write the article.
2) Check for grammatical and structural errors.
3) Ignore the grammatical and structural errors.
4) Drink. Drink to the point to where if I had one more drink, I probably wouldn’t be able to read, let alone type. Then open up the file, read the article, and insert as many inappropriate jokes as I can.
5) Finish writing, continue drinking.
6) Wake up in the morning (where are my pants?), if the jokes I don’t remember writing make me laugh, submit the article.

Is it a healthy process? No. But it pays the bills.*]

It was going to be a glorious weekend of bachelorhood, and I was contemplating referring to it as “The Weekend of Al,” in an attempt to get back to that magical 2004 season of freedom known as “The Summer of Al.” I would be bottomless, drunk, and bite into a block of cheese like it was an apple.

Then, on Wednesday, the girl The Lady Friend was going to be staying with in KC had to cancel. The brief she was writing for law school had to be changed by next week due to some new law being passed. Then she fell down her stairs on NYE (in her defense, her stairs are ridiculously wide and treacherous) (another good name for a progressive rock album: “Her Stairs are Ridiculously Wide and Treacherous”) and got a concussion (thus once again showing that the majority of our friends, while extremely intelligent people, are unabashed drinkers and have trouble staying upright at times).

So “The Weekend of Al” was canceled at the last second. It appears that I will be spending the weekend with my pants on and I’ll probably end up at Linen n’ Things registering for a fucking teapot at some point in time.


[have a great weekend, kids. if you find yourself bottomless and eating cheese at any point in time, know that at least one man in the world is extremely jealous of you.]

[also, just kidding baby.]

[kind of.]

*No it doesn’t.


Krusty: So this afternoon two suits come up to me and ask me to endorse a new sports utility vehicle.

Homer: Don't you hate pants?!!
Oooohhh... You're going to be in trouble!
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