Typical Friday in Enterprise

Went to some bars with a few buddies from flight school a few Fridays ago.

The first bar was awful. There aren't a ton of options down here in Enterprise, Alabama, and we wanted to hear some live music. The best way to describe the band is that they did an awesome cover of "Scotty Doesn't Know". Like everything else here, drink was super cheap. I would put average age in the at 40, and average hotness of the babes at about a 3.

My man John is trying to make a move at the one remotely decent looking girl, (about 35 years old) in the place, and I cover his flank by conversing with her ogre-like redheaded friend. It sucked, but if you thought about how much it sucked and drank, it was awesome.

So we definitely leave, and we are wasted. Walking down the street to another bar, by the side of a typical New South bypass of fast food and tire shops. We are all too drunk to be able to go into the bar, I carry John a block, he keeps sitting on the ground or grabbing my butt, I push out a few voms behind some bushes. Probably about a 3 mile walk. At one point I fell over in the middle of the street.

My other friend Matt tucks me in on the couch, but I can't sleep so I watch some music videos on BET and drink some more Coors. Then I don't feel good at all. Haven't eaten much though, so when its time to execute my moves, I know that things are going to be intense.

From about 0600 to 0930 I was forcing out bile, sweating profusely, and then getting really cold. Matt came down around then, I got dressed, wretched the last slob of green glop out, and he drove me back on post. Spent the rest of the day completely not doing anything.

Wedding night jitters?

Unlike the last wedding I was a part of, I very happily did not vomit the morning of my own wedding. The night, however, will be of more interest to you, dear readers.

The day was literally the best day of my life, great ceremony, awesome celebration. The reception was in the afternoon, so when it ended there was time for a nap and then a big party evening. The younger folks hit the bars of Alexandria, which is where our tale begins.

My wife and I roll up fashionably late to the bar where the party has congregated. The joint is hopping, the band is jamming, our friends are yelling and the drinks are flying. As the groom, a lot of them were flying to me. First things first my God-brother John orders a round of whiskey shots. I'm into it, but not naive.

We throw em back, slam em down, probably high-five or something, and that's that. Or is it? The tell-tale signs appear. The burp. The gag. The hold-it-in-the-throat belch. There's no way I could make it through the crowd on the dance-floor to the bathroom in time. An vomateur would probably panic and spray all over the masses of people.

But I am like a puke MacGyver; this is too easy. Grab an empty pint glass. Bend over like just another guy tying his shoe at the bar. The drink slams right up into the glass, fills up to just below the top. Put the glass on the floor and push it as far out of the way as possible. Consider yourself primed to party.

Only my wife noticed, and she loved it. More shots, please!