Cabin Weekend and Penises Around My Neck

I went to the cabin in Breezy Point this weekend, which was father north than the halfway point to the north pole. I got excited by some of the signs I saw along the way, like about reservations being nearby. I figured hey, if the cabin didn’t work out for good times, we could always get some casino and firewater action going. Until I was told that these weren’t THOSE type of reservations, but instead the kind that hate whitey for all the acts of douchebaggery we committed upon them; who knew they’d still be pissed for the smallpox blankets? Another quality sign was “STOP MILFOIL” and I don’t get why anyone would want to stop MILF oil. That was further clarified for me when I found out they weren’t talking about Terry Snatcher, and that milfoil was a plant from the water that grabbed on to boats and was transported to other lakes. The best sign was the one that said “HAVING SEXUAL THOUGHTS ABOUT CHILDREN?” WTF? If I was a pedophile and wasn’t having those thoughts, as soon as I saw that sign I would be. What kind of town was I passing through that they had to have a sign like that up? It was almost as tasteless at the giant headstone for “unborn children” next to the cemetery.



Friday night when everyone arrived was chock full of jello shots and liquor flowing as freely as the public urination of hobos. Joe decided whiskey and vodka were the ultimate alliance, and somehow he managed to outlast us all, and was the final one to be voted off the island by the alcohol tribunal. I woke up aching all over. First, I attributed it to falling down, and just because I didn’t remember it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. The line of unseen bruising on my forehead was from slamming it into the bar (that’s nothing compared to Skoalfaces head dives into the chairs/floor). So when they asked what I wanted in my omelet, I said “advil.” I started off the morning drinking mimosas, while others drank bloody marys. Once again, Joe outdid us all with Michael Collins, “the spirit of the hero”, irish whiskey. But the spirit did not stop him from needing to take a nap.


We all recovered at our own paces, and after food we were all ready to hit the bar. I mentioned before that I woke up with a body ache. I started thinking that I might be coming down with a cold. My first instinct is to drink through it (alcohol is sterile, right?); some people say to feed a cold, starve a fever, but I like to drown both. I even drank red bull and mandarin vodka, hoping it would pep me up. Other than the sickness creeping up on me, we had the recipe for a fanfuckingtastic night, me and the four other women wearing our candy penis necklaces, sporting cleavage, and at a bar where we could all pretend to be Canadians and play “Slap ass” (the year prior Skoalface’s wife and WineOnWheels almost got in two fights and kicked out of the bar for slapping random people’s asses).


Anyway, I started shivering, and couldn’t get warm, despite wearing my wool pea coat; the ceiling fans in the bar being on didn’t help (seriously, was that necessary? It’s 28 fucking degrees outside). My throat started closing up to where it hurt to drink and yell at the band (they were wearing hearing aids, how classic is that?); but I need to give them credit, they sounded pretty good, playing other people’s songs. But since they had been a band since 1985, they should be decent. After the shivering started, I began going downhill quickly (it's hard to drink when you shiver so hard you worry about chipping a tooth on the glass), even the offer of free drinks from DevilRay (named so because of his stint playing for the Devil Rays), did not perk me up. When I am turning down free drinks and looking to leave the bar early, I know I am legitimately sick.