As all of you, by the clear and unalterable definition word, MUST know the Sack is back from his vacation to his Kirkwood, MO mansion and ready to rock your socks off. And one of the reasons why I am so comfortable in my stroke at this point in time is because, at almost 25 years of age, I have seen the light. Like America I am ready to grow up. At least it didn't take me quite 236 years.
The reason I am telling you all this is because I recently attended the gentile ceremony for grown up people. That's right ladies and gents--I just attended a wedding. Now to be fair I had attended weddings before, but this one was different. I wasn't a 6-year-old ring barrier here. I was a adult contemporary, a friend of the groom, the only guy who knows that sporting a neck beard with your Josef A Bank suit is proper nuptial guest edict.
I was a grown up, attending a grown up ceremony, were words like "love" and "caring" were said with heartfelt emotion and meaning and not accompanied by Edwin McCain background vocals. I was an (alcoholic) man-child standing in the ungoldly heat and praying to God that the open bar would open in the next 2.5 seconds. I was an adult who clapped when the ceremony was over and winked at the bride's grandma when she walked past me as I was entering the men's room.
I was a wedding guest. I was (arguably) the drunkest guy there. I was the one who fell in love.
With the flask of Jim Beam I snuck into the bathroom and chugged in the stall. That was true happiness. That was true bliss.
And that my friends is what weddings are supposed to be all about in the first place.
Carbondale = Butt Hurt...by a part of the Sack's anatomy
So now that I have offended by married friends by belittling their union and degrading their classy and pretty GD awesome ceremony into little more than a meaningless moment where a solitary man chugged Jim Beam in what may or may not be the men's bathroom...let me back track and tell you all what I learned from my wedding weekend in Carbondale, IL...dairy style (spoiler alert: it involves the terms "butt," "hurt," and bucket of ice retrieved from the surprisingly well functioning ice machine on the 2nd floor of the Comfort Inn and Suites).
Friday, June 29
1:38 P.M.-I depart St. Louis and begin heading south through the state of Illinois. Fireworks are now illegal. Which brings me to one question and one question only: if I can't shoot roman candles at my friends testicles...then what is this all been about? What am I working towards?
2:51 P.M.-I'm listening to Hot 104.1, St. Louis' finest hip hope and R&B sung mostly by black people, when my radio turns to static. Good bye black music. It looks like Southern Illinois has got you now.
3:51 P.M.-I arrive in Carbondale, check into my room at the Comfort Inn and Suites (I apparently missed out on that whole suites part) and send the following tweet/facebook status: Dear Carbondale, I hope you are ready to get butt hurt. Cause that's where I'm putting all 4.6666667 inches of my penis this weekend.
4:11 P.M.-I drive across the street to the liquor store. As soon as I walk in I look behind the counter and discover that there is a drive through window. I immeiadetly (still can't spell that word) get walk out of the store, get in my 2006 Ford Explorer and turn towards the drive through.
4:13 P.M.-I order a case of Busch Light and a handle of Jim Beam. Or, as they call it in Carbondale, "The upper-middle class folk special."
4:15-6 P.M.-I sit by myself drinking BL Regulars (aka Bush Light) in my hotel room. I fell like this kind of moment has been and will continue to be far too frequent in my life.
6:02 P.M.-I load up my cooler with BL Regulars, drag it into the elevator (where I am standing with 6 or 8 elderly people who thought The Dale was the perfect end of June 15th honeymoon/deathbed vacation spot), through the lobby, out into the 108 degree hot, across a state highway, into the lobby of the swanky Holiday Inn across the street, through its lobby, up its elevator and into room 221.
6:14 P.M.-I reach room 221 where my boys Ream, Brit, and Stromboli are staying. Within a few seconds we crack a few BL Regulars and close the blinds to keep the sun from reflecting off Brit's bald dome and directly into our eye sockets.
6:23 P.M.-Brit, Ream and Stromboli inform me that they are leaving to go to the Rehersal dinner that I am unceremoniously banned from attending.
6:24 P.M.-I drag my cooler out of the room, down the elevator, through the Holiday Inn lobby, out into the 108 degree heat, across the state highway, into the Comfort Inn, up the elevator (where I am curiously standing with the same 6 or 8 elderly people who apparently consider the elevator to be some sort of crazy amusment park ride they've never seen before) and back into my room.
6:57 P.M.-Booman, my roommate for the weekend, arrives.
7:29 P.M.-We crush some Dominos and Beam, or as they call it in The Dale, the 4th most expensive meal in town.
8-10 P.M.-Booman and I watch Smackdown and pound Beam. I am somewhere between 75 and 400% aroused during this entire time period.
11:02 P.M.-Me, Booman, Ream, Brit and Stromboli roll to the Penny Pitcher (aka the hottest club in The Dale) where we meet Iain, Danny Mush, and Kyle the brother of the bride and by far the most attractive person I have seen in person since I was one of 4 people who attended the first reading ever of Chad Michael Murray's graphic novel in Biloxi.
11:03 P.M.-To put this in perspective Kyle looks like a mix of a young Ed McMahon, that dude from Burn Notice and the non-famous guy in 3 Men and a Baby (no not Magnum P.I. or the guy from Becker) with the body of a 5'8" AC Slater. It's like I'm hanging out with a non-Latino angel right now. A right angle. Haha...get it.
11:11 P.M.-I'm pretty upset that the Penny Pincher had a five dollar cover charge...until I step up to the bar and realize that they have no concept of money in The Dale. I get a 2 whiskey cokes, a '95 Pontiac Grand Prix, a frozen reproductive sample from 1980 Olympic 100 meter champion Allan Wells (aka the one white guy who ever won because of the US boycott) and the Lance Armstrong testicle from the movie Ted for $2.75...otherwise known as 19 billion Canadian dollars (or 22 trillion worthy of whatever the hell French Canadien money is called).
Saturday, June 30
12:02 A.M.-I'm feeling pretty good when Ream and I start playing this game where I slap him in the face because I am a foot taller and roughly 100 pounds heavier than him...and he runs to the bathroom so no one sees him crying in public. You may call me a bully, but I am actually performing a service for a good friend. I am making sure Ream doesn't like getting hit in the face...after all no one wants to be one of those weirds who pays dominatrix money for that very privilege every day.
12:19 A.M.-I got to slap Ream when he ducks and I end up jacking Kyle right in the jaw with all of my Butterbean level force. This angel of a man looks at me, instantly forgives my transgression and goes home with some chica. And thus ends the first night of my love affair with God's perfect creature.
1:07 A.M.-The Penny Pitcher dance floor is getting insane! Every person in the Dale is grindin on a broad by now. I am standing directly by myself directly in the center of the dance floor staring right into every dude near me's eyes. I roughly 1/3rd as aroused as I was watching Smackdown. Jackpot.
1:43 A.M.-We are leaving the Penny Pitcher. I have spent $29...or approximately 3x the revenue of The Dale's highest grossing car dealership "Big Don's Country Rib Market and Go-Cart emporium."
2:14 A.M.-Me, Booman, Ream and Stromboli end up at the local Steak n' Shake, where I obviously order a guacomle burger. Look, if there is one thing The Dale's Steak n' Shake is know for it's the freshness of their avocados, and based on our waitress...not giving their employees decent dental insurance.
11 A.M.-1 P.M.-Me and Booman wake up in our room and start watching TrueTV. I nearly murder myself. So, yeah...we clearly had a nice little Saturday planned.
1:09 P.M.-We roll to the Holiday Inn pool where I disrobe (completely?) and am quickly asked by a my of the several female gawkers if I am a body builder. I tell them I lifted weights 4 times and have a gotten 137 punchers on my Cici's pizza frequent eaters card. (Inside joke here) But I do know a ripped guy who once benched 185 pounds 7 times at the Lawrenceburg, Indiana combine for Special Olympic athletes who are made fun of by other Special Olympians because they still wear rec specs and it isn't 1988 so, by the transitive property...yeah I'm pretty yoked. (This is really mean, but I am pretty sure the guy this joke was directed at doesn't read this trash so...I'm sorry?)
1:19 P.M.-I've created roughly 67 fart bubbles in this pool in the past 10 minutes. Natural gas + chlorine = our best source of clean energy...and nature's most powerful afrodiasiac.
2:41 P.M.-Booman and I have been downing Beam and Monsters (Lo Cal of course...healthier than water) and are now putting on our suits. Looking this baller means that I will one day be convicted by the SEC for securities fraud and paying Cam Newton $10 for every bible reference he made during the 2010 season (2 organizations...same name). Is it worth it? Absofruitly.
3:03 P.M.-Booman and I get on the shuttle that is taking us from the hotel to the wedding, and immeiadetly begin talking about stupid shit that no one of you want to read but I will still mention far too often in my upcoming entires.
3:04 P.M.-First Booman and I decide that this wedding will be sponsored by the United Negro College Fund, which leads me to create the World Trending Twitter hashtage #McLaughlinMaroneyWeddingBroughtToYouByTheUnitedNegroCollegeFund. After all if there is a more worth while institution with a more noble purpose that I can make more outrageous jokes about them sponsoring a wedding that 0 black people attended...I can not think of one. And that stuff is funny to me.
3:05 P.M.-Next Booman and I lock down our alter egos, aka the lies about our identity we will tell chicks at this wedding who know who we are because they went to college with us and will automatically turn down our sexual advances because they witnessed me attending the president's ball in a shirt covered with deep frier stains, sweatpants, and socks with athletic sandals. We are the Lehman Brothers. We are rich. Our company has never gotten into any financial or legal trouble. And we wear suits. Nuff said.
4 P.M.-Jeffrey and Emily are getting married. My heart has never been filled with more joy, or a desire to get drunk, or a hatred with the sun than it is at this very moment...which is saying something.
5:14 P.M.-I start taking down BL Masterpieces (aka Bud Light) two at a time. By the way in case you haven't heard I know have nonsensical names for Busch Light (BL Regular) and Bud Light (BL Masterpiece). By this time 2022...they'll be sweeping the nation.
5:17 P.M.-There is a chalkboard where you are suppose to write Jeff and Emily a thoughtful message to led them into their life of being married and have your picture taken with for some collage or something. I predictably grab the chalk board, draw a penis, and hold it directly over my crotch. Happy wedding. Yeah you do it.
5:23 P.M.-I almost ruin the wedding reception by knocking a beer bottle off some table. The resulting racket caused the whole room to come to a standstill and stare at in silent disapproval. So what'd I do. I blamed it on the guy next to me, yelling "come on Stromboli!! God!" The bride's father than proceeded to take off his belt and beat the shit out of him while I stood laughing at him for being such a bad person. Hahahaha...CLASSIC.
5:46 P.M.-I am talking to my boy Nelson. For those of you who don't know Nelson, let me tell you a few things about him. 1-He's rich as f. 2-He's a baller. 3-His girlfriend works for BMO Harris, which basically means that she controls about 2/3rds of all the money in the United States' Heartland, 4-He's uh...Puerto Rican (sorry for being racist here). 5-He looks like enough of a bad ass that if you were in prison with him...you'd just shut up and take it. So yeah...he's a great friend of mine. You feel like you know him already don't you?
7:19 P.M.-After dinner I make a trip to the men's room where I down about half my flask. Nothing freshens you up like gargling Beam in a b-room stall in The Dale.
7:23 P.M.-I steal Stromboli's glasses, which cost $130 and have no prescription in the lenses, and I look like the biggest GD baller this side of Chingy (see pic above). This Lehman brother is an intellectual success story and boy...are the girls not receptive to that act.
9:14 P.M.-The DJ hits me with a little Call Me Maybe. Carly Rae Jepsen = Canadians 3rd greatest important behind 1-Wayne Gretzky's giant whore of a daughter (by the way they are making Grown Ups 2 without Rob Schneider? Well, there goes my Summer, 2013) and 2-Uh, is Martin Short from Canada or something? No? Oh his brother Marvin Short lives in Edmonton now. That dude is hilarious.
9:32 P.M.-I see some 3rd year old kid running around in a plastic crown. So I do what any god citizen would...I steal it off his head and run around for the rest of the night acting like I own 4.5 Burger King franchises, including the one and a half Carbondale locations. And let's just say, this led to me getting laid slightly less than Owen Wilson. Slightly.
10:08-10:19 P.M.-I take a giant poop in the men's bathroom. I finished in about 2 minutes, but by then someone else had walked in so...I obviously hid in the stall into old man river finished his 9 minute piss. Might wanna get your prostate checked there friend. Just a suggestion.
10:21 P.M.-Jeff introduces me to the bride's father while I am literally chugging from a bottle of White Wine. Mr. Maroney obviously offers me a job on sight. I tell him to F himself. He offers me his job. I tell him that he may or may not have strong feelings of dislike towards Arabs. I now own Carbondale. Insult people and you get ahead in life...especially if you are a living, talking Teddy Bear.
10:30 P.M.-The picture above is taken. Let's just say (and you can ask Britt about this): they don't call all 4.666667 inches of my ding dong Magic Mike's much younger brother with no rhythm or discernable ability for nothing.
Sunday, July 1
12:02 A.M.-I am back at the Penny Pitcher, still wearing my ballin ass suit, and telling people that I work on Wall Street. Chicks are flocking to me and asking me all sorts of questions, such as 1-Which Jewish temple do I worship at? 2-Which member of the Bush family convinced me to play tummy sticks with him that one fateful night at boarding school (spoiler alert: It was famed TV with famous people dude Billy Bush) 3-Was American Psycho based on my life? and 4-What was Blake Lively like in real life? And with Blake Lively, we all know...I am in there like swimwear son.
4:19 A.M.-I end up back in the Comfort Inn and Suites. Booman is sleeping in my bed. I strip down and get in with him. Hey, whatever happens in The Dale stays in The Dale. But since I just wrote about it here? Oh wait...no one reads this. Haha so I'm not gay? (not that there's anything wrong with that).
There you have it boys and girls. Weddings. The Dale. My constant use of the word butt hurt (more explanation on this in the youtube vid below). My life in a weekend nutshell. My existence in between trips to the bathroom to gulp down Jim Beam.
Text Updates and Big Ups
My current text messaging score since June 29th is a healthy +521 (432-inbox, 398-sent, 55 from females), which means that I am not a homosexual (not that there's anything wrong with that). Also I have now reached a pinnacle of 299 Twitter followers, which curiously includes a whole lot of Law Firms (including Tom Cruse's Firm in the movie The Firm, which I believe will be handling his divorce). Are these practicers of objections and contempt and stuff trying to tell me something on the interwebs?
Also I would like to extend big ups to my whole crew from that weekend I wrote about including Booman, Ream, Brit, Stromboli, my married friends Jeff and Emily, Nelson, J-Bone, Lee and Nelson's gf who owns BMO Harris and a bunch of other people. The time was about the same quality as this post. That bad huh?
Back next week with something that hopefully doesn't make me butt hurt.
Sachary L. Poelker
"The Sack Artist: Master Jack of All Trades"