Chapter 4
Chapter Four. The German on the mount.
Day three was a driving day. This meant that we were in the car from the morning until well into the evening. Our mission was to reach Boulder, Colorado by the end of the day. Boulder, for us, held promise of a good hearty meal or two and the possibility of a triple S, shit, shower and shave. Our Colorado connection was a young lady we had met earlier in the year in Pennsylvania, who shall henceforth be known as Miss A. She would be expected to provide the food, drink and toiletting facilities for the ensuing stay. The day in the car was pretty uneventful, with sleeping, drinking and chess playing being on the menu for 3/5ths of the party. Mr. Pink and Mr. C spent the day glued to the benches at the back of the van playing chess and consuming potato chips and beer. Mr. S and Mr. T were still bearing the brunt of the driving while my wrist was in less than good shape. I would split my activities between drinking and navigating, sometimes doing both at once. The job of navigator on our journey was never really one that required too much effort from the man with the map, despite Mr. Pinks claims that he wasn’t able to do it. It merely involved sitting down and glancing at the map every hour to check how far along the interstate we had come. It would only be at the end of the day that some more advanced spatial awareness would be needed. The chess games of Christopher and Matt were perhaps the most interesting things occurring at any given moment. Every 20 minutes or so there would be an eruption, with a lengthily discussion about the finer points of chess consuming another 10. Fast food was ingested at an alarming rate, as was gasoline.
4:45 p.m.
We required fuel every 6 hours or so when driving constantly. Any excuse to exit the vehicle was a welcome break from chess wars. Every time we stopped, we went to the nearest garbage can to scavenge food, whichever of the major fast food chains was there. I tried to think of ever more ingenious ways of relieving the boredom of the poor drivers. Perhaps I could initiate football style chants from the stands (or comfortable back seats,) “Come on Mr. T, come on Mr. T” or such old favourites as “Mr. S. (clap clap clap) Mr. S (clap clap clap.)” But on further reflection, I wasn’t confident that they would have the required uplifting effect.
6:00 p.m.
By evening, we had arrived at our destination, or close enough.
“Hi, Miss A. we think we’re pretty close to you now, we’re at a gas station on…some road, when can you come and fetch us?” I confidently proceeded to spew out my directions, and she accepted them, confident in my confidence, and confided in me that she would arrive in 10 minutes. I confidently strolled over to my four confidants and informed them of the situation, and with that in mind, we waited patiently in the car. “How Fucking long have we been waiting now?” inquired Mr. Pink eloquently. We had been waiting 40 minutes. We were all getting impatient, and so Mr. T phoned up Miss A on her cell phone.
“Yeah, Hi guys…” began Miss A gingerly, “Look, I don’t know where you thought you were, but You are a lot further away than we thought, you’re not even in Boulder!”
From The brief phone conversation we ascertained that we were in fact “just” outside of Boulder, in the same way that Indianapolis is “just” outside of Chicago. I sat back and received the torrents of abuse like a true Englishman. Except for Mr. C’s references to farmyard buggary, which I thought were unnecessary and frankly disturbing. “Besides,” I offered, “Mr. T parked there,” My last minute heroics temporarily deflected the abuse in the direction of Mr. T and allowed me 20 minutes restbit
8:30 p.m.
After waiting somewhere close to an hour, Miss A arrived. After initial reunions, we were instructed to follow her, not to her house for the expected shower and hot meal, but to a party at a friends house. This would indeed turn out to be a real treat, a vast house owned by a well to do Colorado family, and to their credit, very neat and tidy. At least to begin with.
9:00 p.m.
The beer was plentiful and the company was interesting. Mostly rich kids rebelling against their upbringing by wearing expensive clothes made with no expense spared to look inexpensive. The discussions revolved around pricey cars, which I assume either they or their parents owned, and gossip from the area. At one point, the conversation threatened to turn to more universally interesting matters such as the upcoming elections, but quickly moved on to more important areas like cars and clothes.
11:30 p.m.
As the night grew old and our blood-alcohol levels grew dangerously high, the fun continued. One poor kid drank so much that he fell asleep on the sofa, the poor fool. Pens were immediately produced by more than one party, and they proceeded to decorate. By the time they had finished there were various designs and words adorning his once pristine face, including one rather fetching, expertly drawn toothbrush moustache.
12:14 a.m.
After the facial art episode, business progressed to more important matters, drunken games. It is my belief, and the belief of others, that beer pong should henceforth be made an Olympic sport, and I shall be completing the various forms and mailing them to the Olympic council as soon as I finish this book. Mr. Pink was a spectacular beer pong player who rarely missed a shot, despite Mr. S’s amazing inability to score a single point. As a team, they were victorious and taught the rich young scalywags some important lessons in life. Perhaps in light of everyones thorough enjoyment of the game, a moment or two should be taken to briefly describe the intricacies of this pending Olympic sport. Below, for your ocular consumption and enjoyment, a foray through the world of professional beer pong has been prepared.
Beer Pong, The Sport Of Champions.
1. The Athlete(s) are required to be inebriated.
2. Each team presides over one side of the table only.
3. Adorning the table are 20 cups, 10 for each team, placed in an attractive stepped formation, much like the balls on a pool table.
4. Each cup is required to be half filled with Beer, and/or whatever alcoholic beverage is at hand.
5. Team One proceeds to launch the first ping pong ball, aiming toward the opponents cups. Should the ball miss all targets, the turn is over.
6. Should the ball hit a target, the conquered cup should be removed from the field of play and consumed by the loser. Further to this, the remaining cups should be repositioned so as to recreate the previous format of the gradated balls which was so pleasing to the eye.
7. Play should continue until one team has no cups remaining on the table, and the other emerges victorious. The winning team should celebrate by drinking even more and whooping and jumping up and down like an inebriated American. The losing team should remove themselves from the sight of the victors and stop offending their vision with their pitiful crying and homage paying.
4:00 a.m.
Play continued long into the night, creating mighty champions and making and breaking men. By 4 o’ clock, the party was beginning to wind down, and the last remaining stragglers were leaving, including one disgracefully drunk kid who spent the night drinking too much, waking the neighbours and smashing expensive (probably) plant pots. While it was 4 o’ clock in Colorado it pays to remember that the road trippers were still working on Eastern standard time, two time zones ahead, so technically, for us, it was still 6 am. We had collectively consumed three large boxes of Hershey’s brownies and drank too much to remember. We had even smoked an apple, an apple I tell you! I just wanted to go to bed, and so I did along with a couple of others.
5:00 a.m.
At around five o’ clock we were rudely awakened by a knock on the van door. Miss A and a friend invited us into the Jacuzzi for further drinking and cavorting. Of course, I usually wouldn’t be one to refuse such an irresistible offer, but I was really fucking drunk and tired, so I respectfully declined, if you can call shouting “close the fucking door, I’m trying to sleep!” respectful.
All things considered (as they so often are not,) the party was brilliant. It is not often that any gathering of people drinking and smoking toxic substances can really hold my attention for more than two hours. This particular gathering however, managed to hold me until the wee hours. I have not drank or smoked as much for a long time before or since. At the end of the night, the previously tidy house looked like a bomb-site, the site of a shite bomb, or a bomb of shite if you will. Broken plant pots adorned the ex-pristine floor, Sofas finished the night with spidering ink stains and drunk rich kids sprawled across them. Mr. C decided to take advantage of the free beds, and at one point, (I am reliably informed,) he “accidentally” wandered into the room of our female host, although this is all mere speculation. I am also informed that he swiftly removed himself (or was removed by said host,) from the vacinity whereby he made his way to a vacant bedroom to his final resting place, but again this is pure conjecture.
Day three was a driving day. This meant that we were in the car from the morning until well into the evening. Our mission was to reach Boulder, Colorado by the end of the day. Boulder, for us, held promise of a good hearty meal or two and the possibility of a triple S, shit, shower and shave. Our Colorado connection was a young lady we had met earlier in the year in Pennsylvania, who shall henceforth be known as Miss A. She would be expected to provide the food, drink and toiletting facilities for the ensuing stay. The day in the car was pretty uneventful, with sleeping, drinking and chess playing being on the menu for 3/5ths of the party. Mr. Pink and Mr. C spent the day glued to the benches at the back of the van playing chess and consuming potato chips and beer. Mr. S and Mr. T were still bearing the brunt of the driving while my wrist was in less than good shape. I would split my activities between drinking and navigating, sometimes doing both at once. The job of navigator on our journey was never really one that required too much effort from the man with the map, despite Mr. Pinks claims that he wasn’t able to do it. It merely involved sitting down and glancing at the map every hour to check how far along the interstate we had come. It would only be at the end of the day that some more advanced spatial awareness would be needed. The chess games of Christopher and Matt were perhaps the most interesting things occurring at any given moment. Every 20 minutes or so there would be an eruption, with a lengthily discussion about the finer points of chess consuming another 10. Fast food was ingested at an alarming rate, as was gasoline.
4:45 p.m.
We required fuel every 6 hours or so when driving constantly. Any excuse to exit the vehicle was a welcome break from chess wars. Every time we stopped, we went to the nearest garbage can to scavenge food, whichever of the major fast food chains was there. I tried to think of ever more ingenious ways of relieving the boredom of the poor drivers. Perhaps I could initiate football style chants from the stands (or comfortable back seats,) “Come on Mr. T, come on Mr. T” or such old favourites as “Mr. S. (clap clap clap) Mr. S (clap clap clap.)” But on further reflection, I wasn’t confident that they would have the required uplifting effect.
6:00 p.m.
By evening, we had arrived at our destination, or close enough.
“Hi, Miss A. we think we’re pretty close to you now, we’re at a gas station on…some road, when can you come and fetch us?” I confidently proceeded to spew out my directions, and she accepted them, confident in my confidence, and confided in me that she would arrive in 10 minutes. I confidently strolled over to my four confidants and informed them of the situation, and with that in mind, we waited patiently in the car. “How Fucking long have we been waiting now?” inquired Mr. Pink eloquently. We had been waiting 40 minutes. We were all getting impatient, and so Mr. T phoned up Miss A on her cell phone.
“Yeah, Hi guys…” began Miss A gingerly, “Look, I don’t know where you thought you were, but You are a lot further away than we thought, you’re not even in Boulder!”
From The brief phone conversation we ascertained that we were in fact “just” outside of Boulder, in the same way that Indianapolis is “just” outside of Chicago. I sat back and received the torrents of abuse like a true Englishman. Except for Mr. C’s references to farmyard buggary, which I thought were unnecessary and frankly disturbing. “Besides,” I offered, “Mr. T parked there,” My last minute heroics temporarily deflected the abuse in the direction of Mr. T and allowed me 20 minutes restbit
8:30 p.m.
After waiting somewhere close to an hour, Miss A arrived. After initial reunions, we were instructed to follow her, not to her house for the expected shower and hot meal, but to a party at a friends house. This would indeed turn out to be a real treat, a vast house owned by a well to do Colorado family, and to their credit, very neat and tidy. At least to begin with.
9:00 p.m.
The beer was plentiful and the company was interesting. Mostly rich kids rebelling against their upbringing by wearing expensive clothes made with no expense spared to look inexpensive. The discussions revolved around pricey cars, which I assume either they or their parents owned, and gossip from the area. At one point, the conversation threatened to turn to more universally interesting matters such as the upcoming elections, but quickly moved on to more important areas like cars and clothes.
11:30 p.m.
As the night grew old and our blood-alcohol levels grew dangerously high, the fun continued. One poor kid drank so much that he fell asleep on the sofa, the poor fool. Pens were immediately produced by more than one party, and they proceeded to decorate. By the time they had finished there were various designs and words adorning his once pristine face, including one rather fetching, expertly drawn toothbrush moustache.
12:14 a.m.
After the facial art episode, business progressed to more important matters, drunken games. It is my belief, and the belief of others, that beer pong should henceforth be made an Olympic sport, and I shall be completing the various forms and mailing them to the Olympic council as soon as I finish this book. Mr. Pink was a spectacular beer pong player who rarely missed a shot, despite Mr. S’s amazing inability to score a single point. As a team, they were victorious and taught the rich young scalywags some important lessons in life. Perhaps in light of everyones thorough enjoyment of the game, a moment or two should be taken to briefly describe the intricacies of this pending Olympic sport. Below, for your ocular consumption and enjoyment, a foray through the world of professional beer pong has been prepared.
Beer Pong, The Sport Of Champions.
1. The Athlete(s) are required to be inebriated.
2. Each team presides over one side of the table only.
3. Adorning the table are 20 cups, 10 for each team, placed in an attractive stepped formation, much like the balls on a pool table.
4. Each cup is required to be half filled with Beer, and/or whatever alcoholic beverage is at hand.
5. Team One proceeds to launch the first ping pong ball, aiming toward the opponents cups. Should the ball miss all targets, the turn is over.
6. Should the ball hit a target, the conquered cup should be removed from the field of play and consumed by the loser. Further to this, the remaining cups should be repositioned so as to recreate the previous format of the gradated balls which was so pleasing to the eye.
7. Play should continue until one team has no cups remaining on the table, and the other emerges victorious. The winning team should celebrate by drinking even more and whooping and jumping up and down like an inebriated American. The losing team should remove themselves from the sight of the victors and stop offending their vision with their pitiful crying and homage paying.
4:00 a.m.
Play continued long into the night, creating mighty champions and making and breaking men. By 4 o’ clock, the party was beginning to wind down, and the last remaining stragglers were leaving, including one disgracefully drunk kid who spent the night drinking too much, waking the neighbours and smashing expensive (probably) plant pots. While it was 4 o’ clock in Colorado it pays to remember that the road trippers were still working on Eastern standard time, two time zones ahead, so technically, for us, it was still 6 am. We had collectively consumed three large boxes of Hershey’s brownies and drank too much to remember. We had even smoked an apple, an apple I tell you! I just wanted to go to bed, and so I did along with a couple of others.
5:00 a.m.
At around five o’ clock we were rudely awakened by a knock on the van door. Miss A and a friend invited us into the Jacuzzi for further drinking and cavorting. Of course, I usually wouldn’t be one to refuse such an irresistible offer, but I was really fucking drunk and tired, so I respectfully declined, if you can call shouting “close the fucking door, I’m trying to sleep!” respectful.
All things considered (as they so often are not,) the party was brilliant. It is not often that any gathering of people drinking and smoking toxic substances can really hold my attention for more than two hours. This particular gathering however, managed to hold me until the wee hours. I have not drank or smoked as much for a long time before or since. At the end of the night, the previously tidy house looked like a bomb-site, the site of a shite bomb, or a bomb of shite if you will. Broken plant pots adorned the ex-pristine floor, Sofas finished the night with spidering ink stains and drunk rich kids sprawled across them. Mr. C decided to take advantage of the free beds, and at one point, (I am reliably informed,) he “accidentally” wandered into the room of our female host, although this is all mere speculation. I am also informed that he swiftly removed himself (or was removed by said host,) from the vacinity whereby he made his way to a vacant bedroom to his final resting place, but again this is pure conjecture.
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