The second tradition is one of my personal favorites: The Labor Day Mustaches. This one started a few years ago with just me and another guy. This year we had four participants (one guy wasn’t into it and the other two can’t grow facial hair to save their lives. They’re like our sisters or something). It’s great when a group of guys rolls into a restaurant sporting dirty ‘staches. People want to say something but they can’t be sure that we’re wearing them ironically, so we just go about our merry business looking like a bunch of pedophiles.
Really though, it’s the third tradition that’s the best of all, mainly because only 6 of us know about it. It will require some explanation though.
Like I said, everything is a competition and mainly because of one guy. He is generally the mastermind behind every bet and wager and much to our chagrin, he generally wins the wagers, primarily because he is good at a lot of things, but more importantly because he cheats his fucking ass off.
If the 7 of us were on Project Runway, he’s the dude that would cut the thread in my sewing machine when I was off with my model at the TRESemme Hair Salon. That’s how lowdown and dirty he is.
To his credit, it’s not always cheating. He spends as much time playing the games as he does figuring out the shortcuts to heighten his advantage. On this trip we played two separate bocce ball matches, each as randomly selected teams of two. In both instances this dude randomly selected the two strongest guys in the group. We know they’re the strongest because they won the football-throwing contest earlier in the weekend. Bocce ball is meant to be played within a 30 foot-long court, 60 at most. Rather than go for a game of skill, every time dude threw the pallino ball he launched it as far as he could possibly throw it, making it a competition between his partner and the other long thrower. Needless to say, his team won both matches and needless to say, it pissed me off both times.
That’s why our favorite labor day weekend tradition is the one he doesn’t know about. It started 3 years ago in Chicago at a bar when one of the guys ordered a round of vodka shots. We were already all half in the bag but we all folded to the peer pressure and took the shot. Then we got another round, and another, and another. The thing about it was, in each round of vodka shots, only one shot was actually vodka; the rest were water. And wouldn’t you know it, conveniently the vodka shot ended up in front of this dude every single time.
We honestly couldn’t believe we fooled him the first time, let alone the second, third, and fourth. It was amazing and phenomenal, and we all patted ourselves on the back like we were damn geniuses. And so a tradition was born.
Last year he and I were the last to arrive at the houseboat at Lake Cumberland so we both drank the 40’s of Steel Reserve, and you already know how that ended for me. On top of that, we fed him 4 more shots of vodka while the rest of us happily shot our water. It was brilliant. Unfortunately for him it pretty much ruined the second day of the trip for him while he slept in until 6 PM, but such is karma.
Now, I know what you're thinking, "oh my gosh, that is so mean!" Grow up. He's not a 2 year-old that doesn't know what he's doing and it's not like we're forcing him to drink his own urine or something. He's a grown adult capable of making autonomous decisions for himself. He could easily turn down any one of the shots we offer up… if only he didn't have a mountain of pride on the line; a mountain of pride that is easily crumbled by a little steady peer pressure. He could say no if he wanted to, but when it appears that your 6 closest buddies are taking down the shots, one at a time, like real men with chest hair and mustaches and beer bellies, what are you going to do?
The best was the original time in Chicago. He flat refused to take the last round and instead poured it into a candle votive setting on the table. After 10 straight minutes of constant berating, he wilted under the peer pressure and took the shot… along with the candle wax. We still laugh about that one.
I’m not sure any one of us was convinced it would work again this year. But low and behold, it worked like a charm – to the tune of 12 shots over the course of the weekend. We all deserve fucking Oscars for our efforts. The best part came on the last round, when he himself went and retrieved the bottle of vodka. Granted, we all had to take a real shot that time, but it was all the proof we needed that this tradition can last forever. I mean, I just can't wait for that day, hopefully years from now, when he finally figures it out. We'll laugh for 30 straight minutes. Then when we stop laughing and he asks us how long we've been fucking him over and we say 15 years, we’ll laugh for another 30 minutes. Oh man, I'm laughing right now.
On one final note – the only thing worse than a shot of vodka is a shot of vodka after you’ve trained yourself on 11 straight shots of water. You should have seen the looks on our faces before, during and after the real thing. The hardest part is forcing yourself to emote the same facial expression after a real shot of vodka that you’d been displaying all weekend for fake shots of vodka. It was like watching Brando, De Niro and Pacino trying to out act each other in a death scene or something. Priceless.
No comments:
Post a Comment