Offside Comments Boys and Girls, At the request of Clutch "Don't call me Don" Hutch, here is the recap from another legendary weekend in the greater Kingston-Potsdam region. Seeing how I'm not exactly working at the moment, there is clearly time for such a description. It all started when I was three hours late to pick up Nate-E and the Bomber because my grade 10 drama teacher wanted to have sex with me and told me that I could act, so I spent the morning and most of the afternoon in Toronto, pretending to film a comercial, but in reality I was just waiting for the blizzard to begin. I have a beard, Nate has the most $$$ Harry Rosen suit to come out of the VV in years, and the Bomber has a classic Bomber story: "So I brought home this 37-year old last week..." Legend. After two hours in the car we were in Ajax and life was sucking balls, but at Wendy's we saw a man with a braided fu-man-chu holding the hand of a disturbingly underage girl, so we knew what I would be looking like the next day. We finally rolled into Kingston sometime after 8:30, and began drinking copious amounts of alcohol while trying to convince the Bomber that "Monter's INC" wasn't the best thing to be watching if you want to get drunk. My beautiful babies were looking money as usual in their designer sweat pants and the lacking shower which usually accompanies such formal accoutrements. The record player was lacking. No vinyl tonight. Skeeter, Llibia and Trish the Dish showed up after 11, and it was abundantly clear by the look on her face that the Dish had made a grave mistake by going along with this idea, and we all pretty well figured that Foley would be single within 48 hours. More love for his ambiguously gay roommate. The girls finally showered (together), and Bitty was careful to shave...everything. We polished off a few more bevvees and walked to the Brass, stopping to pick up Sarah and Spic on the way, both of whom were in bed at the time, in separate quarters, of course. The Brass was loud and smokey and intoxicating, and we ran into Big Tommy Flynn and Thunder Dan, and we all did shots of something, and then somebody told Brit that she had a piano tied to her ass, and everything was downhill from there. The next thing I knew, myself and Nate were stealing a couch off of somebody's front porch and running with it down the snowy streets like we were a couple of Jamaican guys in a John Candy movie. When we got back to the house, T- Dogg begged me to let her lick my nipple ("you might as well let me lick your nipple with my tongue ring: just once before I go to Norway"). I told her that I had promised not to let any girls lick my nipples unless they were covered with whipped cream, so we had to take a rain check. We opened up 12 bags of complimentary RING-A-LOS (you're a legend, Dish), and proceeded to spill them all over the floor in the hopes that some of the girls would take our mud-pit- substitute as a hint, but they all managed to keep their clothes on until they made it upstairs. This was clearly Bomber's cue, and he spent the rest of his night trying to get to the bottom (pardon the pun) of an age old myth: The fire bush - is it all it's cracked up to be? EM was clearly not having any of it, but a little back rub never hurt anyone. Legend. Me, Nate (passing out on the inflatable couch, beer in hand, and then beer all over himself), Skeeter (yes, Skeeter was still awake), Llibs, and even the Dish at times, stayed up until 4:30 serenading the whole house by singing the entire cassette's worth of "Born in the USA", and then "Night Moves" which apparently has the greatest subtle acoustic guitar riff under three seconds that you have to be completely hammered in order to hear. I tried to sleep with Nate on the pull out couch, but our conversation was followed immediately (as in, his very next breath) by thunderous snores that Blighter can attest to, so I had to sleep in Tara-the-lesser's bed, sans Tara-the-lesser. For the record, I was not naked, although this decision came after much painful self-debating (not to be cofused with much painful self-master- debating, which came later). At 9am, the Bomber ran downstairs like a kid on Christmas morning and watched "Monters INC" in its entirety, and Tara-the-lesser came home, found me in her room, and said "Oh, you're in my bed. I was going to call you guys about that". It is important to note that she didn't specify whether she was going to say "it's okay if you sleep in my bed", or "I'll castrate whoever tries to sleep in my bed" when she was going to phone. But when she left the lights in the room on for two hours while playing on her computer and speaking loudly into the phone six inches from my pounding head, I think I could guess at what she meant to phone about. This bitchy behaviour was more than made up for when she showed Nate her ass, which rocketed her to the top of Nate's "Top Five Bitches In The HOUSE" list which he would proclaim into his megaphone twelve hours later at Club 99. Class. The morning was your basic sunny Saturday in Kingston. I shaved my "world's ugliest beard" into the "world's ugliest mustache", Tara-the-lesser's mother and aunts came over and the Bomber got naked for them in the front hall AND on the front porch, we all took turns raping the upstairs bathroom, and then we went out for breakfast where the Bomber ordered Steak and Eggs, a milkshake, and a grilled cheese. Life was grand. The next thing you knew, we were on the road to Potsdam, each single girl becoming more and more sexually aroused with each passing mile. Mission. It took us an hour to find O'Flaherty's new place and we had to trek though two feet of snow to get to the front door, but it was all worth while when we saw the greatest piece of stolen merchandise of them all: The Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen poster. MMMMMMONEY!!! The Christmas tree was pretty quality as well, but we mustn't discriminate against the Heebs because Dan the Goalie is a Legend and Rosco had...ahem...prior commitments. Also a Legend. While everyone was getting ready for the game, we went and picked up the Beazer from SUNY Potsdam, and, now that I think of it, what the fuck happened to that guy? He just vanished sometime after the Dish beat Nate in a hard fought chugging competition. I don't know. We zig zagged our way through the snow to the rink, drinking cans of Busch and bottles of Rolling Rock. It is important to note that we purchased 24 of each. This will become funny later on. We slammed back a few subs and a few $0.99 classics before the game, and then headed into the rink, helmets, jerseys, and, oh yes, one Don Johnson lookalike. We were fuckin' cash. The game was a bit of a blur, which means that it was good, but the intermissions were stellar because every time we checked in, the Leafs were up by another deuce, and we were firing back the Blue and, oh my god, Club 99 got a new draft beer: I don't know what it's called, but it's pale ale, and I didn't even have one sip of it. What a waste. By the time the third period rolled around, the offside comments were being fired from every direction. Brittany was obviously a key character in these tirades, but so was the ghost of Murry KUNTZ, as well as the nickname of the opposing team: The Beavers! The "Lick my Beaver" chant wasn't being very well received, so we tried to get the "Tongue Fuck My Asshole" chant going, but most people were unable to draw the clear connection between that cheer and the BEMIJI State hockey team. Whatever. I was wailing away on the drum kit for the whole third period, Skeeter was impressing ever girl under the age of ten with his classic impersonation of Ukranian dancing to the sounds of Ava Lagida, and Brittany, in a strangely ironic bit of foreshadowing, was blowing on a horn in front of a large crowd......Ouch. Clarkson wins 5-4, but the Legend O'Flaherty is clearly the big winner. Postgame at the Club, there are twenty pints waiting for us: Pope. Richard and Smith ask about my jock, but they're too feminine to join in the drinking competition, so we tell them that next time we'll polish that sixty of jack, something we all know will never happen. I was waiting for the hot ticket girl to show up, but seeing as she was 17, that was simply not in the cards. The players started filing in, and this is where the memory starts to get a little hazy. Nate and Schwanee were working the megaphone to perfection (EHDEM CAAMPAAANA), but conspicuous by his absence was Don the Tender. Wayne Gretzky and Dave Taylor are still fortunate enough to remain next to the true hockey legends in the display case. We invited three guys from the band to come back and party with us, and they were high- fiving each other like they were in high school and had just been invited to the cool kids party, which, in a sense, was the case. They said "this is gonna be awesome, but you have to come by Mosher's old place to pick us up, because we can't go to A40 alone". No problem. They ran out of the bar like giddy school girls on their way to their first Brazilian wax: terrified and exited, pondering how much such a move will pay off in the future. Unfortunately, we never quite made it to Mosher's, and I have a feeling that those guys are still standing out in the snow, tears streaming down their faces, waiting for us to show. Sorry. We were drunk. We went back to Oaf's and changed into our money suits for the bar. You obviously have to be dressed up for McDuff's on a Saturday. I chose the mustache, a twisted sister shirt, my bitchin' glasses, and a full length racoon-fur coat. Dy-no-mite. We piled into Jen's car, road rockets in hand, and headed into downtown Potsdam. Skeeter, for the record, was passed out on the couch at this point. And at last count, we had 41 beers in the fridge. The bar was rammed, and we were there until they kicked us out, but not before I was able to pick up a beatiful baby who looked a lot like Elizabeth Shue (after you've had 15 beers), and I didn't even have to use the line that Nate had so eloquently chosen for me: "Hey baby, ever have yo assho licked out by a guy wid a mustache?". Unnecessary at this point. We walked all the way back to Flats, stopping at the gas station for a sub (where else would you want to get a sub from at 3 in the morning?). When I opened the door to O'Flaherty's, the place was wall to wall. You know where this one is going. I opened the fridge: empty. I opened the mini-fridge: empty. I went into the closet and found five cans of Busch that I had stashed away for such an occassion. Ten minutes later, Nate walked in, and I honestly thought the vein on his head was going to explode. "WHERE'S ALL MY FUCKING BEER. NO DUDE, THIS ISN'T FUCKING COOL. I'M GONNA KILL SOMEONE". Guy walks by drinking an ice cold bottle of Rolling Rock. Nate says, "Hey man, how's the beer" "Pretty good man" "Yeah, I paid for it, asshole"...next guy, Nate says "Hey man, how's the beer" "It's..ahh..." "Yeah, fuck you, it's mine". The next thing you know, Nate rips the rolling rock metal sign off the wall and starts throwing it like a frisbee at anyone enjoying a rock. It was classic, and I was enjoying a warm can of premium Busch. The party wailed on for another hour and a half, highlighted by Fauker using his excellent Porsche line on anything that walked, myself giving an air-guitaring strip tease on the kitchen table to G&R's "Patience", and Short Bus playing a game of indoor soccer with a crate of rasberry yogurt. And speaking of Gurt, I thought that Skeeter was in there for sure, if he only could have remembered who she was. Oh yeah, Skeeter was awake by this point, and not exactly enjoying life. I ended up dancing with Short Bus in a disturbingly close fashion, holding him like a wee behbee and gazing into the abyss of the space between his teeth. Nate fell in love with a beautiful Nubian Goddess named Jolene or something, and Rieder took the liberty of taking her roomate home. The girl that I picked up went home sad and unsatisfied, but little does she know that had she gone home with me, she would have gone home sad and unsatified anyways, the only difference being that I probably would have drank all of her beer and expected breakfast in the morning, so she was definitely better off. We passed out around 5 all over the place, EM, lucky girl that she is, samwiched between myself, Skeeter and the Bomber, but she obviously decided that she'd rather freeze to death on a love seat than be crushed between the disgusting likes of ourselves on a sweaty mattress, so she called 'er quits. The next morning, Flats said goodbye to us but I wasn't even awake (sorry about that), and Reider looked like a million bucks trudging through the snow in some girls sweat pants. A thing of beauty. The drive home was one of the worst experiences of my life, and to make matters worse, I went 4 for 15 in the football pool. O'Flahery, thanks for the hospitality. It is always the highlight of our otherwise uneventful winter, coming up and embarrassing ourselves the way we do. Trish, don't hate your boyfriend for his asshole friends, and Brit...no comment. Somebody send this to Emilsy because I don't have her address. Rosco and Ronnie, you guys clearly should have been there. Not to worry. There is at least one more trip in the works. Talk to y'all laters, Sheen.