A Sunday Morning

Saturday night. The big St John’s College formal. I skip it, and instead catch up on my sleep. I need to be ready for Sunday morning.

8am prompt, Sunday morning. I get up, get dressed, and get to breakfast. I greet the boys in skirts and the girls with face paint and large antlers. Sausage, beans, and a muffin. I sit down at the table with a witch, a rugby player, an artic explorer, and a mouse. The witch graciously pours me a glass of orange juice. It’s almost time to walk to the bar.

After the formalities of last night (which thank god I missed), its time for the real party. Recovery. 10am, private rented bar, costumes, unlimited pitchers of beer.

Needless to say, the debauchery surpassed anything I have ever, ever seen in America.

Greeting us at the door were a series of cloth murals. Yosemite Sam fucking Minnie Mouse with a gigantic dildo. Betty Boop releasing her voluminous period on an aborted fetus. You get the idea.
I pilfered a pitcher to myself, and got down to the hard business of drinking, at my own pace. However, I feared this may soon be out of my hands. The trumpet approached. Perhaps you’re familiar with the American Beer Bong? Well, this is similar. A meter-long plastic bugle. A pint of beer down the top. Skull it, and blow the horn in victory. I’m fucked.

Thankfully, the instrument of my future hangover never arrived. Instead, our table was doused with a full pitcher of beer. One of the girls at our table marched over in protest, but slipped on the alcoholic ooze coating the floor and nearly fell on her ass. But yours truly was there with an outstretched arm.

Before I get the opportunity to speak up, “Destination Unknown” blares out the speakers. A mass stampede to the dance floor. But seeing how I dance worse than your average club-footed narcoleptic, I decided to hang back with the Spiderman Brothers. A child’s costume shared. The one with the top could barely cover his nipples. The one with the pants bared his asscrack for all to admire. The college student president, complete with hard hat and lion mane, invites us to the floor, but all three of us would rather booze in the sunshine.

We miss the first wave of sausages and face paint beginning to get around, but my stroke of good luck was not infinite. The minute I walk inside, a petite girl clasps her hands around my face, then down my neck. Blue racing stripes, she tells me. In the meanwhile, one of the boys I walked here with is half passed out on the couch, face dyed red, trumpet lolling out of his mouth. It is 10 minutes to noon.

I sit down with people I know, apparently in the middle of an ego circlejerk. Immediately, a friend of mine, male, puts his hand on my thigh. Is he hitting on me in his impaired state? I never get to find out, as just then his buddy next to him busts out chapstick. Drinking can give a man parched lips.

“Such a poof. Put away the chapstick, you fucking faggot.” He turns back to me, and slides his drunk hand higher up my leg. “You’re a legend, you know that.”

I can’t tolerate him. It’s time for a refill. As I approach, two boys fake hump and moan for a girl’s entertainment. Do all westernized countries have a homoerotic double standard? Even under alcohol, only ok if they think you don’t want it.

Before you think I’m just ranting, this matters later.

But hell, can you really stay mad when you’re double-fisting two Smirnoff Blacks while debating politics with strangers? This is the foundation of my life philosophy.

If you’ve never spent your Lazy Sunday getting shitfaced with the sun high overhead, I truly recommend it.

If you want some photos, especially of those insane banners, go here: Morning Booze and Fuzzy Things