In my last post I detailed the Friday the 17th where Gwen and I went out and gorged ourselves on delicious beast flesh. The following night was our annual "Holiday Party" with our local group of San Diego friends. But as the term 'Holiday Party' is so generic, and at the risk of being labeled un-PC jerks, we went ahead and claimed our party as our own, naming it what we really felt:
The Mon Mothma Kwanzaa Blowout Celebration 2010.
"Many Bothans died to bring you the best damn holiday party of 2010!" Many Bothans died to bring us that party - hell we killed a few just naming the event come to think of it. In fact turns out whole multitudes of Bothans were slaughtered again and again in the planning, execution, and clean-up phases. So high was the body count that eventually even that joke was killed. Barely. But it was worth it, to get together with friends and celebrate our deeply rooted African heritage.
The party was as usual a blast. Gwen and I hosted for the first time seeing as how Eryn and Trisha conveniently skipped town permanently to London to avoid hosting. There was no trash-talking Crossbows and Catapults sessions, as in years past, but there was the annual Secret Santa gift exchange complete with international web-cam Skype sessions straight to London. Iwan turned out to be my Secret Santa, and he got me the Predator "Ultimate Hunter" Blu Ray DVD with the didn't-really-need-to-be-said caveat that "When something comes in an "Ultimate Hunter" edition, I buy it for my friends because that's my policy" - a proper sentiment by all accounts. I also got a "Big Cheese Pizza" T-shirt deservedly making fun of my pescatarian ways, and a Best Buy gift certificate which I intend to use to purchase something to help me waste more time, because I need that.
The majority of the party was a delightful affair characterized by delicious, if too much, food, good conversation and warm company. It was, as it is every year, a marvelous time. By the time most decent people left it was down to Iwan, Little Buhr, and myself, and the real drinking began. We ended up playing the Wii until all hours of the night after doing shots for Gwen's official birthday which arrived at midnight. We played Super Mario Bros. Wii on the cooperative setting, though the the term 'cooperative' was misleading as we were quick to flagellate one another when someone screwed up. At some point a "shots for failure" policy was initiated, which eventually took its toll on all of us.
The night ended when we decided to switch up games and play some NBA Jam, only I couldn't quite exchange the discs because it was frankly too hard at that point in my alcohol consumption and fatigue cycle and I preferred to simply pass out with the process half-way finished. I collapsed onto the rug with the NBA Jam disc still in my hand as if I had been shot by a sniper while trying to make the switch. Iwan likewise clocked out on the couch, and Justin, left awake and staring at the lifeless bodies of his two friends, quickly followed suit. It was perhaps 4 am.
I woke up at maybe 6 am with a face full of carpet and hauled myself upstairs to bed. When I awoke again at 7:45 am, freaking out because it was my morning to walk the dog, I was still fairly intoxicated. I ran downstairs but Gwen was already up and out with the dog - she had, bless her, sensed my imminent uselessness that morning. I trudged back upstairs and went back to bed.
The next time I awoke it was 11 o'clock and all I could think was, "Oh God, I'm missing football - I'm missing Giants vs. Eagles!". I ran downstairs, slightly less drunk but infinitely more hungover and assumed the position in front of multiple TVs.
The Giants were up 24-3 or something, late second quarter. Hey, this wasn't going to be half-bad. Nice work boys, let's wrap up the NFC East! Well, it didn't turn out like that, and over the next few hours the second half evolved into one of the three worst losses I have ever experienced with my G-Men (thank God we had the 2000 Super Bowl as a buffer), as Michael Vick "activated" like a Tecmo Bowl player and went ape all over the field, amassing 21 points in 6 minutes or something ridiculous. Neither the dog (on principle), my dad (Tom Coughlin is expressly forbidden from ever entering our house) or I were happy with the result.
By the time DeSean Fuckface Jackson returned that dreaded punt for the final touchdown, my hangover had reached its apex and as he crested the goal line, skirting near it but not crossing it, and as he pumped his fist in celebration, each pump hit me like a hammer to the temple and a dagger to the heart.
Desean Jackson - Talented Receiver, Full-Fledged AssholeThe Eagles won, and the rest is history. The next few days, despite being in the middle of what is classically known as "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year", I was in a funk. As bad as my gameday hangover was during the game, it actually protected me in some bizarro fashion by limiting my ability to process what I had seen. The next few days things got worse. I couldn't believe the collapse - it literally depressed me - and I had to tune out all football.
My normal routine of NFL blogs, websites, and podcasts was shunned and I just sort of went through the week in a fog wishing that the football season would just be over. But alas, it wasn't, and frankly the Giants weren't yet done sucking.
The week dragged, but I slowly climbed out of it, and then Christmas arrived.
Continued in Part 2 Coming Soon!
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