There are flying bunnies everywhere. Cute, white, Cadbury bundles of joy with wings. I’m one of them, I think. The flock of us are flying in a natural V-shape formation somewhere, maybe South, maybe not. Up here in the warm, sundrenched sky, high above the rolling plains, I don’t really care – I’m just happy to be here with my friends. I look over to say hi to one of the bunnies and this one suddenly has red, glowing eyes. He hisses at me, exposing vampire-like fangs and I freak out. The thought of falling enters my mind and I begin my descent. Like an airplane with a dead propeller, I gradually come closer to the Earth until I crash land into a sweet budding mulberry bush that never hurt anyone.
And wake up face-first on the linoleum next to an open can of Bush beans, as hung-over as I’ve ever been in my life and smelling like a special rotting blend of tuna and turpentine.
That was six months ago – and the last time I got together with my former fourth-grade girlfriend, Kristy. Now a welder by trade with a penchant for Jagermeister and crushing beer cans between her boobs, Kristy is proud to be “just like one of the guys.” She is loud, obnoxious, crazy, temperamental and fun to be around – I’ve often thought she’d be a great subject for a reality show or documentary.
I had run into her at Anduzzi’s previously the night in question. After receiving one of her trademark bear hugs and friendly butt grabs, we played bar dice and caught up a little. She said was apparently fired for crushing cans at work (read: betwixt her hooters) the week prior and was freelance welding in the Neenah/Menasha area. I felt bad so I bought her a shot of Jager. She returned the favor. And so on, and so on, until the events that transpired could only be strung together through flashbacks, eyewitnesses and text messages.
I hadn’t intended to get sloppy drunk that night. In fact, I was only stopping by Anduzzi’s because I heard the trophies had come in for their 6th Annual Peg ‘N Keg Cribbage Tournament. I was merely going to scope them out and then go home and watch reruns of either the X-Files or Arrested Development. That’s simply what happens when you get together with Kristy. She recently left me a voicemail.
“Yo, Robbie! What’s up man, it’s Kristy. You recovered yet from that night? Hahahaha! I’ve never seen a grown man puke in a bathtub like that before. Anyway, whad-dar-you-doing for the Super Bowl besides watching the Pack kick the sh!t outta the Steelers? Let’s party! Give me a call.”
I don't think of myself as a popular person, but I do have a few options for the Super Bowl on Sunday. As it gets closer, a decision will have to get made. For the aforementioned reasons, the first to get cut will most definitely have to be Kristy. While watching the Super Bowl with Kristy would undoubtedly be a night of wild craziness fit for the Youtubes, this is one evening that I want to savor and cherish and remember the next day.
Sorry Kristy - you're out/fired. Always, R.G. P.S. Don't beat me up next time you see me please.
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