GUYS! You ever wonder
why they make you sign a waiver before consuming super intense burn your mouth
off spicy foods? Like, c’mon, what’s the
worst that can happen? It’s not like Death by Jalapeno is a thing. I just always
thought it was a gimmick, but nope, I’m here to tell you, the danger is real.
I will start at the beginning, because duh. I am a beer nerd. Craft beer is my jam. The husband and I go to a lot of beer
festivals, sometimes accompanied by Eldest Child who has inherited my love for
all things craft and local, beerwise at least.
So we’re at Hibrewnation, in York, PA. This is our second year attending. Last year we went General Admission but this
year? We’re rolling VIP,
boyyyyyyyyyy! An hour early entry plus
access to VIP only beers. It’s like
catnip for us hep beer-cats, only instead of ‘nip, it’s hops. Hopnip.
TM, TM, TM, don’t steal my shit or I will find you and I will and I will
….. um…. make angry face at you.
Turns out we only ended up with 45 minutes early access
because our Lyft driver was a downright idiot.
I’m sorry, I do not like to be hyper critical, but if you are driving
for a rideshare service you should NOT have stuff sitting in the backseat of
your car that you then have to rearrange so that your three passengers have
somewhere to sit. Your car should be
relatively neat and clean and OH YEAH!
You should have GPS easily accessible.
You should not be driving with one hand and holding your phone with the
other. You also were provided with our
destination address when we initiated the ride so whyyyyyyy are you asking us,
after you’re already lost, where we are going?
Why are you skidding through lights and missing turns IN THE RAIN. I want to drink, not die.
But I digress.
Anyway, as stated above, we go to lots of festivals. I am not a novice at this and I know how to
pace myself. I can get buzzed, get
tipsy, get happy and text everybody I know, post ALL the photos to Facebook (I
am old and do not Instagram or Snapchat, sorry cool teenz) but I rarely get
full on forreal DRANK. I get to the
point that I make the vendors at the event VERY happy, if you know what I mean.
NO! Not like
that! GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER.
I’m just saying. We
end up buying lots of stuff that we would not otherwise buy. Like earthworm jerky. (Yes, earthworm jerky. NOT my idea).
So we make our way to several different booths, we buy jerky and some
kind of carrot ginger relish (that I have no idea what I am going to do with)
and eventually, we find the pretzel vendor.
EVERY event has a pretzel vendor somewhere. I end up buying five bags – salted caramel
and taco and bacon cheeseburger and cookies and cream and maple flavored. And as I completed that transaction, I saw
this:
Well. Challenge
accepted! Without thought or permission
or SIGNING THE MFing WAIVER, I just threw a handful into my mouth.
And that, my friends, is where shit got real.
I basically lost all capacity for conscious thought. I thrust my beer mug out to my daughter who
scurried over like the dutiful child she is to the nearest beer tent (which
happened to be Sam Adams) and acquired for me a full pour of their New England
IPA (which is quite tasty, btw, not that I would know that from THIS
experience). Which I threw back in one
massive gulp and sent her back for another.
And another. After chugging three
full pours, I was finally able to focus on something, anything other than the
burning.
Also, after chugging three full pours, I went from happy go
lucky spend all the money tipsy-buzzed to FULL ON DRANK. It was
time to go and because we are smrt responsible adults we had prearranged a ride
from the child’s father. Everything
seemed fine until we got in the car and it started moving. I dumped all of our purchases out of their
bags and repurposed the bags for….well, you can imagine what happened
next. It was not pretty.
We got dropped off at my daughter’s house and she and the husband
helped me from the car. I stumbled on
the sidewalk and ended up rolling down the hill, in the mud. Got into the house and needed to go
downstairs but also knew going downstairs in the conventional manner was
unwise. So I sat on my butt and bounced
down the stairs like that. Ended up
lying flat on my back on my daughter’s living room floor while she tried to
sponge the mud off of me and the boyfriend praised her for being such a good
daughter since I used to clean her butt and then I rambled on and on about the
epic poops she had as a baby and then raised my shirt and played bongos on my
belly until I passed out.
So yeah. Moral of the
story is that when you get drunk and make an ass of yourself, always have a
scapegoat. I blame the pretzels.
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