Even the blanks filled in later by the marvels of digital photography ceased to illuminate the memory clearly. Once real details emerged, days later, my vision of manifest destiny sharpened. It wasn’t just the vision of grandeur and cheap thrills, which are always in place as a Basher, but it was something more, something more meaningful, as if my soul opened to the sound of sirens, or allegedly Frank Sinatra.
I guess it was an important realization, powerful, like when the Gods appear vividly on a disastrous bender. I probably knew what I needed to do. The competition is fierce, yet it isn’t any worse than those that succumb to my beer pong prowess. If you put your mind towards an achievement, work hard, you will always win. In going with that theory, The Hat infiltrated an obnoxious bachelorette party.
This is nothing new; mere swaths of his verbal dexterity equate to automatic entry through any gate, even those of stuck-up harlots. His amazing command of the art doesn't stun anymore, especially when always armed with a trusty kazoo.
Wouldn’t be much of a stretch to claim the title of Happiest Man on Earth that evening. I then became inundated with too many leads at once, a blessing disguised by thievery when you don't remember any of it. To feed off some spoils to the usually unlucky, I tossed a few bones for Don to chew on.
Wish I remembered. This evidently led to breakfast back at
Having no memory is such a waste, and seeing the sunrise after a Bash-A-Thon doesn’t usually register right. I’m normally overcome with traces of panic, veering off the deep end knowing every sane person is asleep, with the exception of me and my motley fools.
Cliff, Bobby and I stumbled about, mumbling nonsense to anyone who’d listen, tracking the adventure via camera while blacked out. We were experiencing cranial failure, we weren't even really thinking anymore. I faintly recall that we hit our cell phones hard in a bid to lure out anyone willing to witness fine debauchery crossed with utter stupidity. Jade was the first victim of our fiery trail of dumb.
I can only imagine the things that spilled out my Captain Morgan breathed mouth. I heard from her unsolicited days after, so I guess all is forgiven. Jenna’s friend Kristin Shepard stuck around from breakfast until well past lunch, a feat which earns much respect on a hungover Sunday.
Kristin confided who she’ll be voting for in the presidential election. “Floyd Sanders,” she said, “because I believe in you, I might even love you.” She had been there the night before, with the sultry cheer, showing support before my plunge into the abyss of amnesia.
They would both make fine First Ladies.I probably began weighing the probabilities of making polygamy legal when elected president. My conversation probably came along coarsely with oodles of drool. Yes, my birthday celebrated loving one another, something the world could use a little more of, maybe a lot. That fact was magnified by confirmation of score taken down by Don, circa 2pm.