I got most of my drinking done before I ever left college. Now I might have a drink occasionally when I’m gaming and otherwise do designated driver and chuckle with wry amusement at the antics of the drunkards.

I recently played in an ironman hockey tournament about 45 minutes from home. After the first night’s game 4 of us decided to stay at a hotel since our next game was at 8:00am and it would be painful to wake up early enough to make it on time. The hotel was a complete shithole — which was actually fortuitous given the abuse it would receive that evening — so we decided to hit a bar for a few drinks before bedding down.

I realized quite soon that the guy that drove us out there would have no ability to lay off when they brought out the first shot of Jagermeister so I cut myself off at a beer and told them to have fun. 3 hours, 4 or 5 rounds of Jager and 5 pitchers of beer later the previous designated driver has over the course of the past hour worked his way over and is now leaning heavily on some dear woman, having made the observation that he would, at the slightest provocation, cheerfully suck on her toes and what were her feelings about that? She was surprisingly receptive, though the return from the bathroom of her long-suffering husband who has gamely observed this trainwreck approaching the entire time with surprising aplomb put the kabosh on the actual performance. Picture: ex-jarhead to the left, previous designated and now completely soused driver on the right and the aforementioned woman cowering in the center.

In the meantime I’m trying to ignore the two Latin American gentlemen at the bar who, out of what I can only assume is boredom, via every machination short of throwing a punch are desperately trying to pick a fight with any of the crew. The ex-jarhead among us who has prodigiously thrown back as much as the other two is almost vibrating with eagerness and is only restrained after I remind him that it would likely be difficult meeting the puck drop time from the county jail.

At last call the married couple are finally able to disentangle themselves from the clinging attentions of my winger so he naturally begins haranguing the boyfriend of the hottest girl at the bar, questioning the guy’s ability to bring the nubile young thing to orgasm by any mechanism short of divine intervention. At this point I’m wrangling the other two towards the vehicle under the watchful eye of the sheriffs who staked out the exit just waiting for this first group of idiots to foul up. I pull up to the front of the bar and he dives in after one final parting shot.

The drunkards demand McDonalds. The amorous winger, as we approach the drive-through, decides that he would rather make it a walk-through. He stumbles out of the passenger seat and comes around to the squawk box at the precise moment the no-humor late-night person “greets” us. He naturally orders a whopper. This is roundly rejected. He then tries a new tack, ordering “two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, etc, etc” followed closely by a “Big Mac, Filet o’ Fish, Quarter Pounder, french fries, icy coke, thick shake, sundae and apple pie.” Unsurprisingly, late-night attendant is unamused. He repeats his order of the all beef patties adds an order of fries and something to drink and stumbles toward the window. I order for the rest of the monkeys and force him into the vehicle after a life-size image of him dangling through the window at this poor girl and getting maced or worse.

Returning to the hotel at about 2:00am with food in hand, we make our way to the room. It stinks already. The whole hotel allows smoking and its every fiber tells that story. Stained and burnt marine carpet lines the floor, the air conditioner howls like a Sikorsky, and I’ve seen space shuttle parts less stout than what attaches the cheap tube television to the wall. Humorously, the room safe — barely large enough to fit a hardcover book — squats in the closet completely untethered, the mounts totally ripped out of the wall. Fake blissful ignorance is the only thing that allows me to sleep under the sheets and I never even touch the comforter, imagining the gallons of various liquids, body and otherwise, to which it has been subjected.

The ex-jarhead shows his Marine power by appearing almost entirely unaffected by the alcohol. The lone remaining fellow passes out on one of the beds. Amorous winger decides he has lost his wallet and wants me to take him back to the bar. I initially remind him that it’s been closed for over an hour and it would do us no good, then point out that he had, not 15 minutes earlier, pulled money out of said wallet to hand over at the McDonalds. He picks up the keys and walks out to get his wallet out of the van.

20 minutes later I realize that amorous winger has not returned. I curse loudly and head to the elevator, out the door and over to where the van… shit… used to be parked. It’s now gone. Goddammit. I think back to our trip to McDonalds and mentally count the number of police I saw. One squad car in the McDonalds parking lot. One that we passed on the way to McDonalds. One that we passed on the way back from McDonalds. Doing the math I realize that this stupid asshole is either in jail or dead. I’m pissed. I don’t really care as long as he didn’t kill someone else which is my greatest fear. I head back upstairs to get my keys to start the search process. By the time I get back, the van is back and amorous winger is sitting in the drivers seat eating another Big Mac.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I demand.

“I was hungry.”

“We just finished eating and you’re too drunk to walk, you stupid Okey.” I take his keys and stalk back to the room to try to sleep since, at this point, there are 4 hours before the alarm is set to go off for our game. I pass ex-jarhead as he comes out in support. Which is actually fairly literal as he supports amorous winger while he performs the standing yell near the front door of the hotel, but I’m already in bed by this point.

Everyone seems to have settled down when the guy that had been passed out on (the other) bed jerks upright like a marionette and lurches toward the bathroom. His instincts are good but his timing is off as the engines reverse before he reaches the porcelain. He’s still lurching toward the bathroom as the first blasts head out and smack wetly against the floor and wall. He wildly miscalculates his approach and soundly smacks the corner of the wall which throws his timing off greatly and results in rebound splatter and further indignities. He eventually makes it into the bathroom where further sounds of discomfort occur for, hell, a long while, followed by the sounds of the shower. Picture: the marionette just getting warmed up.

After a considerable time he comes out in nothing but his towel which he unceremoniously drops on the floor by (the other) bed and drops in next to the ex-jarhead. Ex-jarhead springs out of the bed with preternatural speed, indignantly shouting at the naked, unconscious teammate who had so nearly befouled him with his unhindered wiener. Ex-jarhead plops down next to me, where I’ve had the Pillow of Heterosexuality strategically placed for just such an eventuality.

Following a harrowing early morning of drunken snoring and little rest, the alarm clock whispers its anemic, staticy greeting precisely at 7. I turn it off, change, pack my shit and kick the ex-jarhead as I’m walking out. “Game in one hour, see you there.”

“You heading out now?” he mumbles?

“Damned straight.” No way do I want to see the place in the light of day, nor are there enough hosts in hell to actually force me to help in the cleanup. I head to pick up a biscuit for breakfast and park in a parking lot near the hotel to make sure they make it out. About 15 minutes later the van blazes down the access road heading for Bojangles.

That morning game was actually our best game in a tournament in which we were severely outclassed. Lubrication I guess.

Recently I interviewed someone for a QA position. This is rarely if ever fun — what do you ask potential QA people? — and I was likely even more predisposed to a negative opinion right off the bat due to the resume. This was a person with 5 years of experience. The length of this person’s resume? 6 pages.

No, seriously, 6 damned pages. By the bottom of the first page I was already incredulous. The level of detail was simply staggering. I joked with my boss that I truly would not be surprised to find something like this near the end to pad it out.

• On work days — which are traditionally Mondays through Fridays, inclusive — I utilized an appliance specifically for waking me up at an appropriately early time, allowing sufficient time to groom and attire myself for work.
• At opportune times during work days — again, traditionally Mondays through Fridays, inclusive — I consumed various and diverse foodstuffs so as to provide my body the nourishment and energy required to perform my job responsibilities alertly and with great enthusiasm.
• At random times throughout the work day — see above for detailed explanations of what qualifies as “work days” — I stood up from the chair at my work surface and autonomously navigated to a predetermined place to void my bladder and bowels which tend to fill with waste matter during the natural process of digestion of the previously mentioned consumables which occasionally require release into approved receptacles to avoid sepsis and general discomfort.

For reference I have a one page resume spanning my — holy shit — 16 year career. Possibly underkill but I’d rather have a brief, interesting resume that leaves potential employers curious and wanting more detail — that’ll hopefully be provided during the interview — than a plodding, overwhelmingly thorough resume that leaves potential employers struggling to make it to the bottom of the first page.

During a recent conversation, as I was applying neosporin to what seemed like Julia’s entire body:

“Boy, Julia, you’re covered in bug bites.”

“What kind of bug made the bites, Daddy?”

“Probably mosquitoes. They looooove sweet little girls. They can’t get enough of sweet little girls to chew on.”

Pregnant pause.

“Boy, I’m in big trouble.”

(Picture from Julia’s recent preschool graduation. Kindergarten this fall. Too fast.)