"Bottoming Out"

Yeah, it is a few days late, but I have been fucking busy working, being hungover, and making earth shattering trades involving third string fantasy football players, so deal with it.

Without further ado, here is a recap of the 4th annual Orenthal James Simpson Football Association Draft/Drinking/Inappropriate Sexual Reference Extravaganza. (Special shout out to the future Mrs. Schmock for letting us destroy your house and for the incredible food)

FRIDAY

It all started off innocently enough. After a long ass, stress filled day at work, I headed to OshVegas to pick up my brother. My brother and I destroyed a few gyros and headed down to Stoughton.

Schmock was busy earning a living as a professional softball player, so we started drinking pitchers of beer and waiting for he and future Mrs. Schmock. A few pitchers, and a few drunken townies (one with super short jorts, and a leg spreading problem) later, our hosts arrived. So we had a few more pitchers and went to their house. A quick stop at the car for the essentials (booze, food, and Alka-Seltzer Wake Up Call) and it was on.

Drank some more. Bear, SportsBottle and Richard showed up. Drank some more. Played some Wii. Drank some more. Began to black out while playing Wii bowling. Took a hot (temperature wise) shot of Goldschlager, nearly vomited, went to bed around 4 a.m., which is the latest I've been awake in a long time.

I'm fairly certain that the phrase "Something, Something, Something, Dark Side" and "Something, Something, Something, Complete" were uttered between one and 10,000 times.


SATURDAY


I somehow slept until like 10:45, which is nearly fucking impossible for me. Typically, no matter how drunk I got, or how late I go to bed, I'm up by like 9 at the absolute latest. I was awoken by rain hitting my leg from the open window about 5 feet away, which means it was raining too hard to golf.

Sat around awhile, got the ball rolling with a screwdriver, got the avalanche started with a strong screwdriver, and decided to switch to beer before I died. Mark showed up and we drafted.

We were in agreement that next time we chose a station to broadcast the event, that we actually require them to bring video cameras, because it would be really fucking funny. However, I'm also quite certain a few of us would be fired from our jobs if anyone actually saw it, so maybe it is for the best.

The draft started out with a bang when Loaf Cobra, in spirit, controversially drafted Steve Smith (since injured) and Reggie Wayne. I say controversial because it left Loaf Cobra with Marshawn Lynch (suspended for three games) and Derrick Ward (not necessarily the starter) as his starting RBs. At least he has Ray Rice (not necessarily the starter) and Leon Washington (almost certainly not the starter) as his backups. Anyone see another 4-10 coming? Bear was almost as bad at drafting for Loaf Cobra as he is at not being a dick. Actually, looking at Loaf Cobras running backs make me feel a hell of a lot better about me having Anthony Gonzalez and Bernard Berrian at WR.

There weren't that many ridiculous picks. I guess if I had to choose, Jerome Harrison in the 11th round seems early. Especially since I will cut him prior to the regular season probably. Also recieving votes: Shaun Hill Round 12, by me, Darrius Heyward-Bey 13th Richard, and Michael Bush 15th by Duper. Anyway, we got drunk, drafted, listened to a story about Twinkie skipping the draft to see Taylor Swift's snatch, and repeated Family Guy lines (possibly the one in the clip above, about 100,000 times). (Ed. note: This was a fucking manifesto and took me two sittings to write. So appreciate its greatness)

After the draft, we headed over to the bar to mix Red Bull and hard alcohol with our beer, repeat Family Guy lines (possibly from the clip above) and everyone except Schmock and I looked at the guttersnipe with the knee high socks that was warming up for her shift at some unknown strip club or flop house. For some reason, I was allowed to "sample" various flavored vodka drinks before I ordered them, even though I didn't ask to sample them. These "samples" were about a shot each. So you can see where this is going. Schmock brought up ordering UFC 101, and within 14 seconds everyone ponied up $5, which is insane because we are all generally drunk and cheap assholes.

We head back, start watching the PPV, which is the first one I've ever seen in its entirety. Pretty good time. I especially enjoyed Anderson Silva making that dude his bitch. Out of nowhere some random people showed up with their two kids under the age of 5. (I apologize for what is coming up, because I'm sure Schmock and future Ms. Schmock knew these people, but I was a .64 at the time, and I may have been properly introduced, but I don't recall it. So I'm assuming for the sake of argument that these were complete strangers off the street looking for free entertainment.)

I have no kids, may never have kids, don't particularly like kids, and am definitely not qualified to give parental advice to anyone, but to plop the kids in front of the TV and 6 completely fucking annihilated/vulgar/perverse strangers, to watch dudes get their faces turned into hamburger at like midnight seems like curious parenting. And I don't know about everyone else, but I have zero filter when I'm drunk, so if I said "fuck" less than 54 times in the hour they were there I would be surprised. Good, clean, family fun. It was just a bizarre situation (no offense).

I hardly remember the title bout because I was blacking out. I do remember the title of this post being brought up out on the patio, and I just thank (Sports Bottle's) Christ that it didn't come out inside the house. I also hope the adult strangers weren't outside, because that would have been awkward. Although I'm not dead, so it probably didn't. I don't remember who brought it up first, but I'm choosing to blame Mark because it sounds like something he would say, and I would think was funny, and repeat a thousand times. And I'm not going to explain it either, because the FBI would be at my office in about five minutes.