Hunter S. Thompson once said “Ether makes you feel like the village drunkard in some early Irish novel.” I don’t know about all that but I do know that being in theCounty Clare (an upscale Irish pub on the east side of Milwaukee) after drinking twenty beers can bring that feeling upon. At least 60% of the beers were taken in cannonbong fashion. That is, one takes a puff of their favorite smoke and while holding it deep in their lungs, does a beer bong. Once the beer bong is complete, the individual will release the smoke from their lungs, usually to great applause- unless you do them at home by yourself, but that’s neither here nor there. What I’m describing is not some theoretical, fictitious Friday night, but my own Friday night last week.
It started simple enough, a trip to the Eastside for some binge drinking at a friend’s house. Four hours and $50.00 later, I had done six or seven cannon bongs, two of which were triple cannon bongs, meaning three cans of beer in the funnel instead of one.
Enough messing around I thought. Time to go to the bar.
Luckily the County Clare was a mere fifty paces southeast of our location so the journey was not so treacherous. From there my memory seems to fail me slightly. I remember a few Manhattans and some scotch on the rocks were consumed but after that things get a bit cloudy. Based on eyewitness accounts, there was a drink thrown in my face and upon our return to my associate’s domicile I promptly flattened a chair and passed out as I hit the floor.
When I awoke in the living room the following morning I had to shit like Carnie Wilson after an enema. It was 6 a.m. and the pressure in my rear was unparalleled. The only bathroom in my associate’s apartment was through his bedroom, which was currently occupied by he and his significant other. Rather than take the sane approach and knock on the door, letting him know I needed to use the restroom, I opted for calling my girlfriend to come and pick me up, remember it was 6 a.m. and I was still pissy, or shall I say shitty drunk.
My friend had moved recently and I didn’t know his exact address, I just knew I was onKnapp Street. So I told the girlfriend to pick me up at the corner of Knapp and Van Buren. I quickly gathered my beer bongs (I had two of them mind you) and walked down the stairs, shit beginning to force itself out. His apartment is on the 3rd floor and by the time I got to the exit door I could feel what I’ve previously heard described as “the heat”. The time had come to do something I had never done before. I went behind the building and quickly took off my shorts and underwear and shit on the ground near the dumpster, like a stray dog. My underpants were already slightly soiled from my trip down the stairs and made for handy asswipe.
For a brief moment I considered what George Washington would do. He was a patriotic American who probably shat in many an undesirable location. Still he persisted and many would agree that his life was a productive one. I then slid my shorts back on, gathered my composure and set out for the corner of Knapp and Van Buren. Drunk, shitty, and with two beer bongs I didn’t exactly fit in with the 6 a.m. Saturday crowd. Not that there was much of a crowd but you catch my drift.
My driver’s timing was impeccable and just as I reached the corner she pulled up. Her mood was not the best, however, since she had been awoken from her slumber by her lover saying he was about to shit his pants and demanding a ride home.
Before leaving my friend’s house I borrowed a DVD copy of Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown. Believe it or not when I got home (after showering of course) I began pouring myself whiskey sours and watched that wonderful piece of cinema. Much like Robert Deniro’s character in the movie, Louis, I too sometimes enjoy getting high in the morning, and for that matter would love to bang a surfer chick in the kitchen.
As the end of the movie neared I again thought of our first president and considered that had he been born 250 years later, he too may have imbibed in such experiences. Cannonbongs, triple cannonbongs, alcohol induced blackouts, and the joy of beating back a hangover with more cocktails are definitely American activities that I think old George would have loved to partake in.
