A couple of (minor) things happened that made me think of this. First, at hot lunch last week, Diane and I had a gigantic giggle fit of enormous infantile proportions over the word weiner. Yeah, we are juvenile, and no, we are not 12 year old boys, but mature *cough* women. Cooking the hot dogs, and talking about weiners sounds stupid, but C’MON!!! Weiners, people. WEINERS!!! How funny is that word and all that it implies? Anyways, the other thing was, Dan and I watched the trailer for the movie The Hangover. It looks absolutely hysterical. Raunchy, disgusting, and totally my style of comedy. That, in turn, got me thinking of all the crazy-ass parties we, as in you and I and the rest of us collectively, have been to. Now, I am not much of a partier these days. My debauchery and personal hangovers are a thing of the past. Don’t get me wrong, I am totally okay with this, as I prefer feeling relatively good the next day after a gathering. But man, in the day, we ripped it up pretty good. Didn’t we all? Truly, what is life without a few awesome drunken disreputable stories to tell? Without going into too many sordid details involving alcohol and weiners, (for good reason…. Hi Mom!!!) I wanted to share my two favorite weiner stories.
Ironically, they both take place in Sparwood, the tiny coal-mining town I grew up in.
The day before I flew to Europe back in 1994, I stayed in the ‘Wood with Melissa and Lisa, to visit the old watering hole, The Black Nugget. Or as we lovingly referred to it, The Black Maggot. Ah, the countless times we carried on in that place, drinking ourselves silly. Good times. This particular evening, the place was jumping. Packed full, we were having a great time. Near the end of the evening, a fellow, whom I will not name, came and sat next to me. He was inebriated to the point that his eyes were going two different directions at the same time. I was only slightly juiced, as I was flying the next day. Slurring his words, and mumbling quite incoherently, I concluded that he was either trying to pick me up or talk about the good ol’ days in school. I found out, though, that he clearly was interested in the first option, when he stood up and unzipped and whipped out the ol’ twig n’ berries. Keep in mind that he had stood up next to me, therefore placing his man-parts directly in my face. Yes, I was eye level with a purple penis about eight inches from my eyeballs.
Now, some of you may have been mortified, or shocked or even disgusted. Me? I laughed out loud, smacking Lisa to get her attention. I probably screamed that it was a purple penis a few times. Mr. Weiner zipped up and sat down, rather pleased with himself. I didn’t have the heart to disillusion him with the truth though, and enjoyed the giggles that ensued with me and my girlfriends.
Now apparently, this act was perceived as anti-chivalrous, and lucky me, another inebriated guy came over to defend my honor. *snort*. What happened afterward was a bar brawl of epic proportions. Us girls saw what was coming down the line (hey, we grew up in a coal mining town. If you can’t read the signs of an impending fist-fight, then you have not been paying attention…) and grabbed our purses and drinks and went to watch the fiasco, while sitting on the pool table. A barmaid got punched in the face, chairs and tables went flying, cops came, blood flew. It. Was. Awesome. During the melee, Lisa leaned over to me and deadpanned “Huh. It’s a cockfight.” I shit you not, I could not laugh hard enough.
The second weiner event happened a couple years back, in the ‘Wood as well. Not nearly as epic, mind you, but still worthy of a giggle. It was the Grad 87 reunion, and there was a big party at the rec centre. Tania and I had gotten into the wine before supper, so I do believe we were all having a super time, seeing blasts from the past, dancing, laughing and enjoying ourselves. Out on the dance floor was a lonely fellow. Again, this man’s eyes were clearly trying to see what was on either side of him, like a human chameleon. Stumbling, smiling, drooling, he was a sight to see. As a few of us danced, he
shimmied stumbled into our midst and pulled down his pants. Our reaction was obviously misread by the poor guy, as our hoots and laughter egged him on, wrongly implying that Yes, indeed, we would LOVE to see more of your tiny penis!!!! He shook his sausage like nobody’s business. The image of it sort of sadly waggling around will haunt me forever. In retrospect, I’m really glad that no one had a camera at that point.
My conclusion to these tales is this. I sure hope that both guys were so drunk, that they had absolutely no memory of what they did the night before. Because no one should ever have to live that down.