Fin de Semana

So, it’s Sunday, the day of rest, and I woke up at 9:30. I don’t have a single thing going on today, yet I woke up from a sleep induced by a Saturday full of hard work, fun times, shitty times, an unprecedented migraine, a Percocet, and two Excedrin; that, to me, is absolutely insane. Nevertheless, I promised you guys a blog a couple of days ago and yet again found myself without the necessary resources to follow up on that promise. Now, however, I have the motivation since, ya know, no one in their right fucking mind is productive at this time on a Sunday except for me. Well, unless you’re an unlucky bastard with one of those seven-days-a-week kind of jobs or you went to church or…you know what, stop thinking, just read.

This weekend has been a got-damn roller coaster. Not one of those cool, new, get your adrenaline pumping and cause you to piss yourself in a good way kind of roller coasters, but one of the rickety ones that are still up and running and only the old timers want to ride it to bring back the memories they have with their families from the 60s.

Forgive me, chiropractor, for I have royally fucked up.

I’m rambling. So, ya know, this weekend has been insane. Friday was pretty much the bee’s tits…cat’s…knees…WHATEVER! My buddy Spenser and I shipped off to the Tilted Kilt in Ft. Wayne to grab some grub and, ahem, enjoy the decor. (If you don’t know what the Tilted Kilt is, I suggest you CLICK THIS.) Despite the gorgeous women in super sexy Celtic garb, this place actually serves some pretty saucy grub, but I’ll save that for another blog for it really isn’t important to this story. Anywho, we’re lounging around at the Tilted Kilt, doing our thing, when our lovely waitress grabs a seat. She immediately starts telling us about this dude who comes in and stalks her. Naturally, Spenser and I start laughing and joking about this creep-ass in our typical shameless, vulgar fashion — INAPPROPRIATENESS GALORE! She starts laughing too and we have a grand ol’ time. Once she leaves, we get to talking and are like, “Meh, these ladies are paid to socialize. Who the hell are we to think we’re getting some kind of special treatment?” Well, methinks we were mistaken. The waitress comes back every so often and eventually gets cut from her shift. She goes into the back, changes into her regular people clothes, comes back out with a giant plate of nachos, and takes a seat again. She proceeds to tell us she can down the whole plate. We jokingly called bullshit and started giving her some of our trademark snark. She accepted our challenge and was dead set on proving us wrong. It then began. In the time it took her to devour most of the nachos — around two hours — we all just talked. We didn’t flirt, we didn’t turn the situation into a pissing contest to see who could impress this gorgeous waitress the most, we just chit-chatted about the most random shit, from dogs to dicks to college. After understanding that we’re the coolest motherfuckers to have ever stepped foot into the Tilted Kilt (this title is very much self-proclaimed), she invited us to a local bar, which we had to turn down because we’re not twenty-one. (The law can S my D.) Still, she then said we could just do some shots on her tab at their bar. She didn’t give two shits about the legal drinking age; she was down to party. Again, we (sadly) declined because we had an hour drive back home. RESPONSIBILITY IS SEXY, we thought. Even though we declined, she still just hung out with us PAST her shift for hours just because we were entertaining as hell. We even got to hang out with her mom, who came in to visit her to bitch about her job at the Lutheran Hospital. Before the night ended, we snagged her number and asked if she wanted to come to Nettle Lake sometime this summer, try some Yuengling beer (a brew only available in a few states), and just hang out with a bunch of really cool people, enjoy a bonfire, listen to some live music, and have a good time. Her answer: of course! Hell yeah, you sunsabitches, we made an awesome and stunningly attractive friend just for being two incredibly ridiculous assholes who honestly have ZERO shame. That, my friends, is called a bonus.

Charlie Gallagher: Making the Bishop Don Juan proud since 1991.

And then came Saturday, the day where everything should’ve been hunky-dory, but turned out to be the day where the good times of Sunday went to shit. That goofy prick Spenser was still around, filled with high hopes that we could repeat the good times of the previous day. After having a good day filled with the eating of Chinese food and sanding of a bed frame, we worked up an appetite for badassery. We decided it would be a grand idea to go out to eat and figure out something epic to get ourselves into. We got all cleaned up, put on our best — an all Nike wardrobe for him, a Batman t-shirt for me — threw a bottle of, um, “Kool-Aid” in the trunk just in case something came up, and shipped out to Bryan. After grabbing some roast beef from Arby’s, also known as the dinner for cheap champions, we went to Wal-Mart JUST to walk around and brainstorm ideas for something to do. You should note that Wal-Mart on a Saturday in Northwest Ohio is the go-to place for annoying high school kids who have no jobs and apparently no lives. We understood this. Hell, at one time, that WAS us. At 20 and damn near 21-years old, we had become just two guys wandering around a grocery store, talking and picking up supplies to make our night better. Apparently, one of the Wal-Mart managers — or he who takes his job too seriously and wears a damn ear piece to make himself feel better about being a night manager at an empty superstore — thought we, the foolish Spenser Reed and the always chill Charlie Gallagher, were the most troublesome people at the store at the time. Nevermind the young bastards throwing frisbees in the hunting section or the 13-year old girls screaming “HEY SEXY!” to Spenser as he walks around the grocery aisles: WE were a big fucking threat. This jackhole was following us. He’d keep giving me the stink eye and walking around us, eavesdropping on our harmless, completely bullshit conversation. He even managed to hide behind some boxes and “spy” on us while we called our friend to see if there was anything to do around town. It was getting to be a big fucking headache, lemme tell ya. So, we decided to sweep kick this guy with kindness. While walking in the beer aisle, this guy strolled past us. Spenser, trying to be as polite as possible to make Mr. Fuckface seem like the bad guy, asked, “How are you tonight, Sir?” This asshole’s response: “Better than you; I’m not the one walking around Wal-Mart for fun.” Jesus H. Christ, that was a low blow, Chief. After living our young lives to the fullest for the past few days, meeting new people, trying sushi for the first time, building a bed frame, having fun, being happy, and making the world our proverbial bitch, this spiky haired pile of chupacabra shit made us feel like total tools. The comeback, “Oh yeah? Says the 30-year old working at Wal-Mart,” was on the tip of our tongues, but we just felt like we got maliciously nailed in the marbles and were too speechless and borderline depressed to react. We may have just been brainstorming/making plans for one helluva good night, but this dude made us feel like insignificant high schoolers again. For that reason, we left Wal-Mart feeling like our manhood had been removed, thrown on the ground, and incinerated before our eyes. The good night had been ruined, the fun times had been crushed, and our Crown Roy….uh, Kool-Aid…had gone untouched. We went back to my place, turned on “Houseguest” (because what cures depression faster than a Sinbad comedy?), I took my meds so that my newly developed migraine would get the fuck up outta my head, and went to sleep at 1 AM…on a got-damn Saturday night. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu……..

“Welcome to Wal-Mart. Bend over.”

There it is, guys. My weekend. One of the better weekends I’ve had in a long time, shot down by one of the employees of Wal-Mart who should’ve been swallowed by his mom thirty years ago. HOWEVER, that guy can take a mirror into his bathroom and find a strategic way to fuck himself. I’m still sporting the “Life’s Too Short” mentality and trying my best to do something new everyday. Which, oddly enough, I can’t do while writing this blog. So yeah, I’ve gotta go. Gonna look up how much it costs to participate in the Running of the Bulls.


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