Over the last several days, I've had bunches of good ideas to write about. Also over the last several days, I've been partying my patootie off. It seems that I've effectively partied the ideas right out of my head.
So maybe I'll just write about the parties.
The first shindig was thrown by a friend who usually matches the description of a hermit. Under normal circumstances, he can't be pried out of his house with a crow-bar, even when offered booze, women and music. But for some reason, the dude can host mind-blowing parties. We had karaoke, Jell-o shots and gay men shaking their asses. I sang.
Yes, read that again people, I sang.
For those of you who don't know me, I'm a former smoker with a deep voice for a woman. You're thinking, this could be good. It could have been, except I'm totally tone deaf. I wouldn't know the proper key if it bit my ass while smacking me upside the head.
So when I sing, people should run. It's just that bad.
Despite my best attempts, the party Saturday night was good. Then came Sunday morning. I was relatively okay, but damn I didn't want to work. Screaming child + hangover (however mild) = bad day. After a nap, however, I was good to host my own party. My own party wasn't nearly as good as the hermit's - but then I didn't have dancing gay men.
We threw a BBQ and cooked beercan chicken. For those of you not familiar with the concept, beercan chicken is a food prepared by shoving a 3/4 full beercan up a chicken's ass and propping said bird on a grill for 1 1/4 hours (or until the temperature of the breast meat is 170F). The resulting chicken is ever-so moist and fine. Unfortunately, our beer-stuffed chickens met with multiple calamities - they fell over, the coals died, the chickens were dropped during a move designed to stoke the fire, etc.
Luckily there was enough beer that no one really cared.
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