Thrice Vomited

We went to Casa del Rio Friday night for Pepsi's birthday (what the hell, indeed) and when we ordered the first round of beers, the bartender grabbed a couple random glasses off the bar, dipped them in water, dipped them in some other, soapy water, dipped them back in the original water again, and filled them right up without so much as drying them off. What. Is. That. Does he think that somehow washed the glasses? Somebody please tell me that is not standard bar practice. I would like to think that those were clean glasses, and he was just...polishing them up or something for us. But then, I don't like to think about it too much at all. Oh, and now I've projectile vomited all over my screen.

From there we headed on to CJs and then finished up at Corby's. Corby's is pretty sweet now, who knew? They redid the floors, opened up the mingling area, and got some new dart boards. Jani eventually joined us around 12:30, and I, in classic pansy style, bummed a ride home from her some 15 minutes later. Rock on. Oh, and it is also worth mentioning that Ball was sexually assaulted by the manager at Casa, thus forever negating his ability to end his stories with "at least I wasn't sexually assaulted." Haha! Nobody gets that reference!

Saturday we continued our standard practice of dinner at Hacienda where we made sweet love to our new favorite server for a solid half of the meal before he managed to break the joviality by saying something so insanely uncomfortable, so unwittingly disastrous that, aside from the immediate sharp intakes, no one breathed for the rest of the meal. It was a previously unthinkable level of awkwardness and, yes, projectile vomiting in our lives. He couldn't have generated more stunned silence and discomfort if he'd told us he's sexually attracted to Jesus. Oh Aaron, why don't you just go back to talking in crazy accents and rhyming people's names with household objects?

Sunday I finally played my very first round of golf. I think I was nervous or something being surrounded by people who actually know how to play golf, because I topped, oh, my first 40 shots or so. I couldn't get any heft whatsoever, everyone else was playing golf and I was playing croquet. Ball kept saying things like "Bend your knees! Keep your head down! Bring your club in! Slow down your swing!" And I'd say "Okay!" and then stand stiff-legged and crack at the ball with all my strength. Finally as I was teeing off on the 5th hole I started to think, hmmm, maybe I should bend my knees, keep my head down, bring my club in, and slow down my swing, and suddenly BAM! Perfect shot. The ball plopped down on the green about 15 feet from the hole, and at that exact instant I spontaneously became a republican. I didn't even play the rest of the round, I just drove off in my luxury automobile to oppress poverty-stricken minorities. BONG! What really happened is that I realized if I actually listened to Ball I might get a decent shot in here and there, and the rest of the round went immeasurably better. I still sucked a fat one, but it was at least the suckage of a beginner rather than the suckage of a wholly incompetent buffoon.

Also on Saturday I finally watched Surf Ninjas. BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA