How much do you fit in YOUR weekend?

Two house parties, Renaissance festival again, and a concert… It made for the weekend equivalent of a clown car. Friday was a party in ghetto Minneapolis, but they had a keg of Harp, a slushie dispenser full of white russians and some greenish-blue Romulan Ale (it fuckin’ knocked me on my ass, and for a concoction to do that, it’s got to be both impressive and possibly slightly toxic).

Highlights include (but are not limited to): trying to have the patience to wait for them to stop singing Tim Malloys around the bottle of birthday mead so I could actually drink some, watching a super old guy try to operate a bong, having a former stripper/speedfreak bitch at me when I used the word faggot-- keep in mind, I actually BROUGHT a gay guy to the party and like the gays overall more than the straights usually.

We grabbed a cab back to my house, but by then it was bar close. Early Saturday Jason, Timmy, Spam and I hit Uptown Bar, which left us squinting into the daylight when we emerged, drunk as piss at 3 pm. After ragstock it was nap time to be ready for the house party that was conveniently down the street from me. This house was also equipped with a stripper pole. I’m not sure who’s idea it was to install one, but it was pure genius. Nothing turns regular, boring, awkward girls into whores-in-training quicker than a stripper pole.

At midnight it was officially Shyong’s birthday and we were forced to concede to his wishes of going to the Soho Café for drunken food. On the way there, a stir was caused when I finished my beer-for-the-road (hobgoblin, mmmmm! Try it if you haven’t), because I threw it on the sidewalk not AT anyone, but um a little too near people.

Sunday was Renaissance festival with Spam, James, Sami, Cheryl, Ben, and Timmy. James tried to hustle the jugglers there (he’s like elite with some pins), but they didn’t fall for his trap. One of the friends we had working there led us down a hobbit path for some mystical ye olde herbals. One of the downsides to fest isthe absolute disgust when some turn their fat side-boobs into cleavage with bustier; IT IS NOT THE SAME AS REAL CLEAVAGE!\

We managed to turn a family-friendly place into debauchery as usual with copious amounts of mead, cigars that lead to black phallic jokes, and trying to find Timmy some fairy wings so in case some people didn’t “get” he was gay, they’d know without a shadow of a doubt.

I wasn’t planning on going to see Lagwagon, but it was on the way home, Spam had tickets and SHIT, WHY NOT, ITS FUCKING LAGWAGON!!!! We left after the show, but Pope, Joe and Sarah ended up singing with the band at the gay bar next door. If that’s not a serious case of badassery, I don’t know what is.