By: Hatless Jack [2006-10-12]

Ride the Night Hard

and let the Devil have the Hindmost

"Motherfucker, you're a cock-throated fuckback who isn't fit to suck the bloody semen-encrusted shit out of Rock Hudson's ass. So help me God, I'm going to make a necklace out of your teeth!" Welp, the evening is shot to hell. I'm three seconds away from deadhanding this motherfucker into a nearby marble statue and going home to sleep it off. But how did it all go so horribly wrong? Is there any way I could have prevented what is about to occur? Was there no love? Why have I become so enraged? What did that fucker do to piss me off?

5:00 post meridian.

Class is over and work is roughly 48 hours away. It is a glorious day to be alive. I swing by the local dive and talk to the usual suspects who've been assembling. In a bizarre occurrence more rare than a total solar eclipse our schedules mesh. We're slick as gooseshit and twice as bold. To kick off our festivities I splash a two-hundred milligram caffeine pill into a Vault, let it dissolve, then pop the cap and allow the whole bottle to rocket down my throat, as was the custom at the time. We call that the Missouri wellspring, right there. [Note: No we don't]

5:32 post meridian.

Wasabi Vodka. Because normal vodka didn't have enough of an edge on its own. If normal vodka is like a cutthroat razor honed to slit a hair down the middle this is a rusty rip saw dug out of the ground by a hobo. But we're trendy like a motherfucker here. It's like drinking Goldschlager except you replace gold with snobby Horseradish with airs. I hate Wasabi. God this is shit. I grab the bartender, "You. Altius. Now." It's nanobrewed in an undisclosed monastery on the continental divide by native Coloradoan monks and chilled below freezing in a bucket of snow shipped in by dogsled from the slopes of Mount Massive. It's good. Damn good. Clean and balanced. I knock it back like a sober Russian. Smooth. Screw you, Mendeleev. We don't need you no more.

6:23 post meridian.

Time to switch. I turn in the general direction of the bartender, "Stoli." Ah that's the stuff. I down it and exhale through my mouth right afterwards to knock off the bite. I can feel the glorious supercooled liquid slide down my throat and then creep up the surfa..."Unbreakable Union of freeborn Republics, great Russia has welded forever to stand. Created in struggle by will of the people, United and mighty, our Soviet land!"... splash across the surface of my stomach and creep up my throat. The coldness turns to a pleasurable alcohol-warmth. No intentional flavorings. 100 proof. That's half the finest and purest ethanol and half the finest Russian factory pipewater. Glorious.

6:43 post meridian.

[Evening went wrong here]

"Let's blow this clambake."

8:38 post meridian.

"Meat rocks!"

"Wooohooo MEAT!"

We appear to be in a meat processing plant. Taking a tour. Wait, that doesn't make sense. Let me check on that. Yep, I've been assured we somehow ended up in the 8:30 PM tour of an all night meat processing plant, and we were not alone: Cub Scout Pack 273 was also on the tour, presumably also learning where meat comes from. It turns out meat comes from a factory assembly line, just as I've always suspected. Upton Sinclair is dead to me now. The building is staffed with many, many highly skilled individuals with knives and we are surrounded by the erotic essences of forked-line conveyor belt manufacturing and colossal machines specifically designed to rip flesh. Sexy.

8:41 post meridian.

"[Sung to the tune of Punk Rock Girl] Meat meat meat meat meat meat meat meat [...] meat meat meat. Come on everybody, sing the meat song!" Aside from nervous chuckles from the Den leaders, nobody outside our group joins in our heartening song. I begin to question their commitment to meat. I'll show the little shits the what's for.

8:42 post meridian.

"You're going to have to leave. Now."

"But we haven't drunken sausages straight from the tap yet."

"Ummm... We don't do that on this tour."

"Well, fuck man, I don't know how you people expect to succeed in the tour business."

9:00 Pocket check:

I've got a lighter with Lenin on it, a misfits shot glass, an uncooked sausage link, and a wallet. Thing One has a meat pen, three tiny bottled shots of mystery liquor with the labels scratched off, and a fork.
Thing Two has five caffeine pills, one pill of undetermined composition, a cell phone, and his entire left pocket is filled with an amalgam of peanuts and pretzels. Missing: Car keys. House keys. Two wallets.

9:01 post meridian

We have consulted for these long minutes and a cunning plan developed. Use the cell phone to call a cab. Drink the mystery liquor. Eat the peanut- pretzels-pocket lint amalgam. Poke each other with the fork. Use the lighter to cook the sausage. Yes... excellent. It's all coming together.

9:02 post meridian

Fork tossed into the middle of traffic. Boot accidentally set on fire. Sausage ruined. Plan ruined.

10:11 post meridian

We check into a semi-notorious bar that will actually serve pre-drunk customers. Things getting a little fuzzy in terms of reporting stuff as it happens so I'm just going to make stuff up about the bar. This bar once served Paul Bunyan. Bunyan was new to the area having come down from wild French-Canadia the previous fortnight for no readily apparent reason. Coincidentally, Pecos Bill, John Henry, and that one folk hero you've never heard about were also in the area at the time. They all got to fussing and a feuding, and suddenly Bunyan was in the thick of it cracking heads like he was Jeffery Dahmer. None survived.

Drunk-thirty. post meridian?

Denny's. It turns out the "Denver Scramble" is no longer just a sexual position. We are crestfallen and disappointed to say the least. However, we are happy to report the "Lumberjack Slam" no longer involves a trip to the emergency room. Goddamned lumberjacks, no better than swine I say.

Including ourselves there are three parties of drunkards lushes jackasses functionally-codependent alcoholics totally awesome dudes in this room, six if you count the groups sitting on the inside of the mirror. Nobody comes to Denny's when they're not drunk. It's like a rule. Even the staff is drunk. From the back of the room we here "Whhoooohhoooo, sausage." It is not coming from anyone in our group. We turn to see a diminutive man brandishing a sausage on a fork. As far as I can tell, he has no connection to the meat processing plant. Fucking poseur.

Who the fuck cares? post marinara.

"I do not believe this bullshit I'm hearing."

"I'm just saying, Kittinger could totally kick Yeager's ass."

"Kittinger was a fucking balloon pilot."

"Yeager was a pussy. And he crashed a goddamn Starfighter, the most pointy of all possible aircraft."

"Yeager did it with broken ribs."

"Kittinger did it with a malfunctioning pressure suit. His hand swelled to five times it's normal size and his blood turned to sludge. And he completed the mission. Do you know why? Because Kittinger was twenty-two tons of hardcore in a five ton sack."

"Bah, they're both pussies compared to John Glenn."

"..."

"..."

A new faction has entered the argument. Regrettably, this faction is demonstrably retarded. This new faction was not raised in the Armed Forces and because of that a fundamental misunderstanding about the unspoken dynamics of the argument has occurred. This is an argument between two Air Force brats. Not only was Glenn just a fucking Mercury Astronaut (making him no better than Ham the Astrochimp), he is also a fucking Jarhead (making him no smarter than Ham the Astrochimp). Perhaps a case could have been made for Gus Grissom and even the slightest mention of Buzz Aldrin would have won the argument, but never John Glenn. After a moment of dead silence long enough to convey that this new position is beneath response the argument recommences.

"Test parachutist. That's more hardcore than test pilot any day of the week."

"Test pilot who broke the sound barrier first."

"George Welch did it first."

"Motherfucker, you're a cock-throated fuckback who isn't fit to suck the bloody semen-encrusted shit out of Rock Hudson's ass. So help me God, I'm going to make a necklace out of your teeth!"

Oh yeah, I remember that. Ass-beating ahoy! Nobody insults Yeag... wait... Ah shit, I'm in the bathroom curled around the toilet again, and I don't think I laid the deadhand on anyone. Damnit! What foul potion would give you the desire to club in a good friend's skull until the white meat comes out and then rob you of the ability to do the same? Damn you booze! Damn you sweet, delicious booze!

Seriously, fuck Welch.

Drinking [2006-10-12 02:14:26] König Prüße, GfbAEV
Drinking sometimes makes one eloquent and courageous.
this is the real deal [2006-10-12 02:17:49] posthumous
As someone who has gotten very intimate with alcoholics, I can vouch for this description.
Also [2006-10-12 03:19:26] König Prüße, GfbAEV
I didn't know that about Welch! There was also some speculation that Hans Guido Mutke might have gone faster than sound in an Me-262
LIES! DAMN LIES! [2006-10-12 08:08:45] Hatless Jack
I do not care what the Nazi or the showboating civilian claim, for they are heathens and false prophets. Chuck Yeager, hallowed be his name, was the first to break the sound barrier. He did it with broken ribs and a wicked hangover.

For future reference it goes Yeager, Kittenger, Welch, Ham the Astrochimp, and Aldrin if the question is various hypothetical ass kickings, and Aldrin, Yeager, Kittenger, Welch and Ham the Astrochimp for coolest achievements. This is not to say Aldrin cannot kick ass, because well... However Ham is a strong contender being a government-trained Chimpanzee and all.

John Glenn is not on the list. John Glenn will never be on the list.
Next round... [2006-10-12 10:46:16] König Prüße, GfbAEV
...if you buy the next round, I'll drink to anything! Yesterday, I heard a fragment of a part of a segment on the radio stating that some thirty-million Americans think that the moon-landing was a hoax! I have thought about the speed of sound since I was a kid. I vividly remember watching a carpenter hammering at a distance and laughing because the hammer and the sound were out-of-sync. Sound and light obviously travel at different speeds.
the moon was so landed on [2006-10-12 14:55:55] posthumous
9-11 may have been a hoax but the moon landing was definitely not a hoax. And that was Neil Armstrong. What list is he on? Can he be on a list with Mickey Mantle? Please please?
Sammy G [2006-10-12 19:46:17] König Prüße, GfbAEV
Yeah, he can be on the list with Sam 'Momo' Giancana. Mickey and Neil Armstrong and Momo. Marilyn Monroe had been taking enemas for years.
Aldrin is the man [2006-10-12 21:13:59] Wyatt
Good power for an old man swinging from the hip with no windup.

Right up to the meat-packing plant, I was thinking, damn, was Hatless in my bar on Friday? After the meat-packing plant, I was thinking, damn, Hatless is a drunk writing god.
Worst restaurant in town [2006-10-12 21:24:54] casey
"Lumberjack Slam" no longer involves a trip to the emergency room.

Even the water at Denny's involves a trip to the emergency room.
Neil Armstrong is not on the list. [2006-10-12 23:09:51] Hatless Jack
Neil Armstrong is on a completely different list. That list goes: Yuri Gagarin, Neil Armstrong, and Ham the Astrochimp. Ham the Astrochimp is actually near the top of a surprising number of lists.

John Glenn is still not on the list.
I [2006-10-13 05:50:13] zeP
want to be that well-spoken and exciting when I'm drunk.
OK [2006-10-14 00:29:07] König Prüße, GfbAEV
But don't try Zima! Drink rum, and talk like a pirate!
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