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!
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