Schmabobble
At 7:30, the alarm trumpets in my ear and reverberates through my brain. I can feel my pulse behind my clinched eyes. I am aching and disoriented, trying to figure out where I am, how I got here, what my name is. Although I have only spotted memories of the previous day, all signals indicate it is Monday. I will spend the next several hours, even days, trying to piece together the disconnected images and bits of conversations that made up Sunday Funday.
At 7:30, the alarm trumpets in my ear and reverberates through my brain. I can feel my pulse behind my clinched eyes. I am aching and disoriented, trying to figure out where I am, how I got here, what my name is. Although I have only spotted memories of the previous day, all signals indicate it is Monday. I will spend the next several hours, even days, trying to piece together the disconnected images and bits of conversations that made up Sunday Funday.
I had decided not to go to the beach this particular Sunday. It was Father’s Day and the rain forecast was not promising. Finally I would keep my weekly pledge to stay home and catch up on laundry and my DVR. Then Brett tells me that, for the first time all summer, he has Sunday off.
Beer one: The beach is unusually sparse for a Sunday. I pound my beer in approximately three minutes.
Beer six: Stephen arrives with a cooler of Old Milwaukee. I laugh at his absurd choice.
Beer eight: I suck the last drop from the bottom of my final Bud Light. Old Milwaukee begins looking tasty.
Beer nine: Old Milwaukee is not tasty. I cringe with each swig. Only one way to solve this problem…
Beer ten: I puncture the bottom with my keys, crack the tab and suck the can dry in about fifteen seconds. Fully acclimated, I am able to enjoy Wisconsin’s finest last-ditch option.
Beer eleven: Brett announces he is ready to go. I slur a barely comprehensible command to leave and grab a ride with Stephen to St. Pete’s finest gay resort: The Flamingo. I announce that today we will not be leaving of our own accord. We will stay until kicked out.
Beer twelve: Two flamingo statues on the roof catch my eye. I decide I love them and name them Francis and Schmabobble. I really want to pet them, but am distracted by a man with back hair long enough to braid. Additionally, stairs seem challenging.
Beer fourteen: I announce words of wisdom which, although accurate, may be inappropriate. “Gentlemen: bathing suits and underwear are two separate and distinct pieces of clothing. While under duress, it may be acceptable to wear your bathing suit as underwear, but under no circumstances is it ever okay to wear underwear as a bathing suit!”
Beer fifteen: I challenge strangers to properly pronounce “Schmabobble.” I mock them openly if they are unable.
Beer sixteen: Upon entering the bathroom stall, I accuse Stephen of peeking and proclaim him a pervert of the lowest degree. I intend to embarrass him, but I’m pretty sure my fellow bathroom-mates are pleased. Either way, Stephen is uncomfortable, so I am pleased. Upon leaving the stall, I convince a stranger that I had just taken a nap and ask how long I had been in there. He regales me with a story of a friend who lived in a public bathroom for years. I said I would like to marry said friend.
Beer seventeen: I introduce myself to strangers as Killer.
Beer eighteen: I try to ride Francis and Schmabobble. I make out with a guy named Lego. I realize I will never be kicked out of the Flamingo. I decide we should go to another bar.
I never make it to another bar. I do not recall the ride home. I spend a long time on my porch arguing with the neighbor’s dog. A few hours later, I will promise myself that next Sunday I will stay home and do laundry. I know I will never keep my promise.
