let's celebrate, with liquor, of course!

As Cinco de Mayo nears, and I train for nearly-lethal amounts of tequila and Coronas, I had a thought...

Almost all celebratory acts revolve around the (over)consumption of everyone's favorite drug... meth.  Er- I mean alcohol.

You aced (or even finished, I suppose) your Calc test?  BEER BONG!  It's your birthday?  Well then, here is a bottle of Monarch's finest and a bucket.  You'll need the bucket, trust me.  You're getting married?  Champagne!!  Oh, and a case of whiskey for when you realize what married life is all about...  Cheers!

Are we, as Americans (or humans in general), incapable of celebrating with out some sort of mind-altering agent?  I'm beginning to think so.

Last Cinco de Mayo was my second day in a post-21 run world, and it was also a Monday.  So you can only imagine the kind of shenanigans most of the Tri was up to.  And by that, I mean the town was practically dead.

But I was excited.  I finally got over my Cheney/Pullman induced alcohol coma, and was ready and rearing to go.  A few equally energetic comrades and I wandered into the Sports Page, a local watering hole that's usually filled with a college crowd, as well as several cougars (not the crimson and gray kind...) and truckers.  

There were four patrons other than us, and no drink specials in sight.  Needless to say, we ran our asses out of there before you could say, "Cops!"

The next stop was the Parkade, which was surprisingly (not really) even more lame.  We asked the tattooed bar maiden of the specials, and she looks at us as if we were drunk, though we were unfortunately mostly sober.

"We don't have drink specials."  She spat.  All right then, fuck you, see if we come back.  We're on a budget here and need to get lit.

So, heads hung low and spirits nearly drowned, we wandered into a little place called, THE TRASH.  It is not an ironic nickname, it is quite literally made up of, and full of, trash.  There were bras hanging from the ceiling and a caliber of clientele that is probably only mirrored in rural Arkansas.  Things were not looking good.

That is, until we spotted a little thing called the specials board...

"$3.00 Margaritas and 50 cent Tequila Shots!!!!!(until 12)" it read.  Well shit, it was 8:30, and it was gonna be a loooooong night.

After a few (haha) tequila shots and several blue margaritas, we found that THE TRASH was filling up fast, with, you guessed it- classy folks.

We found ourselves mingling and dancing and cavorting with the best of them, and by the best I mean the worst.  Almost all of us made it 8 seconds on the mechanical bull- oh, did I not mention there was a mechanical bull?  There was.  And one of us was in a dress.

It was a magical, magical night.  

Nights like Cinco de Mayo '08 and St Patrick's Day '09 (in Vegas, aka very interesting) make me wish I was of Mexican, or Irish decent, so that I could feel a little more legitimate and a little less of a cheap drunk when I celebrate with such ferocity.

Someday I will probably celebrate Cinco de Mayo how it's supposed to be celebrated... which is, uh... Well, to be truthful, I have no idea what the fuck Cinco de Mayo is.  

So until I figure that out, I guess I'll be down at the bar with a $7 bucket of Dos Equis and a few shots of Pancho Villa.  

¡VIVA LA REVOLUCION!

deceptions learned

Liar, liar, pants on fire, hanging on a telephone wire...

Well, if only that were true.  What a sight to behold, eh?  All the truth-impaired individuals, strung up by their Levi's, set a blaze with the fury of 'truthiness' everywhere...

The problem is, if we were all set on fire every time we told a fib, well, we'd all be casket crispies, spending the afterlife with millions of other burnt up tricksters.

For many of us, Santa was one of the biggest lies perpetuated to us in our youth.  There are literally thousands (or at least 3) lies that stem directly from the winter holidays.  

Be good, because Santa is watching you, and if you're good, he'll bring you presents!!  And we all love presents, don't we?  

It's better to give than to receive...  Sure, sure, where are my presents?  

It's the thought that counts.  What the fuck were you thinking when you bought me this ridiculous sweater?  I got you an iPod!?!

We're saddled with the thoughts that our eyes will stay crossed, that the Boogie Man may or may not be in our closet, and that our permanent record will surely be our undoing.  It doesn't take a lot of brain power to determine that eyes don't just stay crossed- you have to like, get hit in the head really hard or something.  And if he was anywhere, the Boogie Man would probably be under our beds.  Don't even get me started about permanent records...  Whoever started that one needs a swift kick to the shin.

When my mother was 5 or so, she had a babysitter who was especially practiced in the art of deception.  She found my mother in her parents room, putting on lipstick.  The babysitter looked at her, with what I can only assume was annoyance/sheer brilliance, and said this:

"You shouldn't have done that, Becky."

"Why?" My mom asked, terror-stricken.

"Lipstick is poison for little girls.  That's why they're not supposed to use it.  Now you're probably going to die."  

My mother put down the lipstick, devastated.  She went to her room, turned off the light, got under her covers, and waited to die.

The worst thing I ever did to a kid while baby-sitting was try and convince him that his name was spelled, "B-U-T-T-H-E-A-D".  Amateur.

I learned from my parents and other relatives to lie for two reasons, and two reasons only: to spare someone their feelings/sanity, or because it's funny when you get away with it.

I was in a play in first grade about dinosaurs, and I had two parts.  I was an Ankylosaurus (which I pronounced ankle-o-sore-us), and T-Rex.  I had a removable head piece that was fastened with velcro, and I had many lines (probably about 7) to remember and deliver with conviction.  After our first, last and only showing, I rode the bus home with fellow students and dinosaurs alike.  One boy, whom we shall call Duke Matchbord, was being an especially tough critic.  He was a fifth grader, whom I had my eye on, and was insanely cool and cute and wonderful.  But he thought the play was lame-to-the-extreme, as all 9 year olds would, because they're too good for everything and everyone.

But I digress.  So Duke didn't like the play... Well, there was really nothing I could do about that.  The next day in class, I felt the need to tell my fellow Rm 4 comrades of my brush with greatness/defeat.  For some reason I found myself in front of the class, crying, about the harsh words Duke had for us.  

I wailed, "and he said... he said, he hated the ankle-y one the most!!!!!!"

He didn't.  

I don't know why I said that.  I've been a liar and drama queen from birth, and while I don't know why that is... I have theories.

As a young child, I would frequent my grandparents pool in the summertime.  On one very special occasion, my cousin and I noticed that our grandfather had a rather large scar on his stomach.

"Grandpa, what is that?" I asked, or my cousin asked.  It guess it doesn't really matter.  One of us asked it, of that I am sure.

"This?  Oh, well kids, this here is where a bayonet sliced me during the Revolutionary War."

We looked at him, wide eyed with wonder.  Wow!  A bayonet wound.  From the Revolutionary War?!  We had no reason to distrust this wonderful man, as he would never beguile us with falsities of heroic wartime acts!

Who would lie about that?

My Grandpa, evidently.  It took me until our Revolutionary War unit in 4th grade to really question his authority, and wonder exactly how he could be 240 years old, while my Grandma was only 37...  Wait a minute?  She was lying too!

And we wonder how I turned out this way.