When I was in veterinary school, once at the end of the semester, some veterinary technician students mentioned they were going to have a party. They emailed all around to a large group of students within the College of Veterinary Medicine at MSU. So a group consisting of myself and three other guys decided to go. One guy was my roommate, and I could just tell you thousands of stories about him. The other two were friends of his, but good aquaintances of mine. But we were all in the same class, so it's pretty easy to just hang out with anybody once in a while when you constantly go to school every minute of the day with them.
Now deciding to go was no small feat. This party was going to be in a cottage on Saginaw Bay. Roughly 2.5 hours for East Lansing. But we thought, a little drive for a lot of fun? Why not? On the way there, we had the usual type of road trip fun. Talking about strange shit and whatnot. But the best did not start until we actually got there. We drove up and the two girls that were having the party came out to greet us. We were the first to arrive. There was plenty of food to help ourselves to inside, including approixmately 10 pounds of taco meat in a crock pot. So we all just hung out for a little bit.
I'm sure you can imagine. Six people who kind of know each other, waiting for other people to show up and take the pressure off of being everybody's be all and end all of fun. We started drinking right away, at about 1:30 in the afternoon. And we waited. And we waited. And we waited. Nobody else ever... showed... up... So here we are, four guys and two girls; and what had been a fun little get together, became an all out, battle royale of hormones.
Now these guys seemed cool enough to me of the trip up. But when the law of supply and demand hit their genitalia, these guys became assholes. I have never really understood that. And here I got to see it first hand. Telling incredibly insulting stories about each other. Knocking each other down a peg. Questioning each others manhood. Anything for the "in" was performed. But for the amount of assholes that were there, the party did not turn out that shitty.
We started a bonfire on the beach, which by the way was near ten miles long due to the low water levels. This is where I learned how to hate rabbits. Let me explain. Once the brain trusts that threw the party were sufficiently soused, and the wind was blowing the smoke from the bonfire in their faces. They would yell, "I hate rabbits" in some piss-poor attempt to appease some sort of Smoke God, or Wind God, or both, and force the smoke in an opposite direction.
This is also where I first played "Smack the Bag." Let me explain, once more. Now if you are truly a wine conniseur, then you know of that wonderful vintage, Franzia boxed wine. However, you may not know that the wine is not just in the box (it's made of cardboard you flipping moron!) and is instead inside a foil bag, that is then inside a box. Anyway... here are the directions. 1) Remove foil bag of wine from box. 2) Take a drink from the spigot. 3) Grasp bag in your non-dominant hand. 4) Smack the bag (hence the name of the game). Your goal is to create a sound that is similar to that of an ass being smacked. 5) Others vote on your prowess. 6) a. If you did well, you pass the bag, and the next person begins at #1 b. If you performed poorly, then you begin again at #1. Repeat until there are many red colored mounds of vomitus surrounding your bonfire.
So as the night progressed and it was determined who of the three other guys were to have one of the female conquests, (I removed myself from play on the basis of principle) the night began winding down. The two pairs proceeded to the couch and a bedroom, respectively. The remaining guy professed how much this sucked. I can only assume that he was none too pleased with still hanging out with me, and would rather have some wang, dang, sweet poontang as Ted Nugent would say. So there we were, continuing to drink outside a cottage, on a ten mile long stretch of beach on Saginaw Bay, miles from anything remotely like civilization; when this guy, this gigantic, intoxicated testicle turns to me and says, "We're going to a tittie bar!" I mention the fact that we are very, very far from a grocery store, let alone a tittie bar. And even if there were one close by, I would be afraid to go, being that the strippers would most likely be 48 year old woman, smoking Marlboros, missing teeth, trying to shake their C-section scars in my face. I also made note of the fact that I was the most sober person between not only the two of us, but everyone else in the entire cottage, and that I could not even tie my shoes. This did little to deter him, and he proceeded to trudge into the house and search for a phone. He could not find one, so he interrupted whatever the guy in the bedroom was doing, to get his keys, to get his cell phone from the car. Cell phone retrieved, he then realized he had nobody to call, and so began searching for the Yellow Pages.
After finding a book of numbers that mildly resembled the Yellow Pages, he violently flipped through it, searching for the desire of his loins, all the while muttering, "T... T... T... T..." I then told him that I doubted tittie bar would actually be under "T", and called him an ass. Then I ignored him, as well as the sounds of drunk love coming from the couch and bedroom, and tried to go to my happy place, as this was not how I thought the good times in the early afternoon would turn out. Einstein had since apparently found what he was looking for and was dialing the phone. He had switched modes from tittie bar to taxi company, as I guess even in his testosterone and alcohol addled brain, he realized a tittie bar did not do you any good if you could not get to it. He asked simply if the number he was calling was a taxi company. The reply, which was audible even to me was, "Sorry sir, this is a textile manufacturing plant." So close in the alphabetical scheme, and yet... so far.
Shortly afterwards, I was drinking a glass of water, and realized all noises had ceased. Everyone had passed out, one of them on his cell phone; with, one can only imagine, visions of strippers dancing in his head. I made my way to one of the bedrooms, thankfully alone, and thankfully with no other noises from couch, other bedroom, or phone calls, and passed out myself.
Morning came and the smell of burnt meat, vomit, and alcohol filled the air. We packed up and headed home. I was expecting stories of sexual success, but none came. The couch guy, my roommate, had gotten to 3rd base, or so he said. And the bedroom guy had stopped short of the dirty deed when his drunk woman stated she was divorced and had a child. I never agreed to go to another party again, that was more than 30 minutes from my place.
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