09
Nov
09

Weekend report: Shit Fucked Up

It’s been too long. At the start of this I told myself Once a day, Slick. You gotta post once a day. Mondays short stories, Wednesdays album reviews. Stick to a writing schedule and you’ll be fine, juuusssstttt fffiiinnneee.

Last week was the first slip up – no album review. Then Saturday, no post, AND Sunday too.

The beginning of the end? Boy, that didn’t last too long 😦

No, just a couple moments of weakness. I’m only human fer chrissakes.

The weekend was a mind-blowingly cool trip from start to finish. Friday night J-Rab and I chilled out to the absolute maximum. Guitar Jon came around, which J-Rab was a little apprehensive about because Friday was just gonna be her and I, but I assured her everything was still gonna be nice and chilled and relaxed and easy.

‘Has he been drinking?’ she asked about Guitar.

‘No! Well, maybe a little…’

‘He better not come in here drunk, I don’t wanna deal with any drunk people tonight.’

‘That’s fine babe, don’t worry, he’s just coming around for an hour or two, I’m gonna give him a little music, nothing hectic.’

I hugged J-Rab. Water bubbled and boiled in the pot on the sotve while outside crickets chirruped in the quiet, warm summer air. I buried my head in the warm alcove of J-Rab’s neck and breathed her sweet scent in.

The gate buzzer sounded.

‘That must be him,’ I said and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello?’ I said hopefully.

‘BLALARRGHAGARHGARHAHGAAAARARHGAHGARAAAALALARARARRAA!’ screamed a voice on the other side.

Nice, I thought, great start. J-rab gave me a look that made my blood more than a little cold, but Guitar kept his shit together mostly and we spent a rad night listening to music and talking shit.

Saturday landed and before I really knew what hit me, I found myself in the bank, exchanging Euros and Dollars into good ol’ ZA Rand.

Yeah, we’re that broke. Because J-Rab changed jobs, she went from a weekly paycheque to a monthly one, so that means we’re just living off my paycheque for the next month and while it is sizeable (much like my cock) it’s not quite two paycheques.

We had to tell the bank the money was a gift and give J-Rab’s parent’s address in the states as proof of that. I didn’t like it one bit. Having just been in court recently, I didn’t like being put on the spot and the bank lady was freaking me out.

I didn’t handle it well, to be honest, but J-Rab, with her sexy good looks, brainy brains and cool and calm demeanour, handled it like a pro.

End result is we walked out 2K richer and, Godwilling, that should see us through the rest of the month.

The party washed over us in waves, each bigger than the last, until we were buoyant in a sea of friends, talking massive amounts of shit and steadily getting good and loaded.

I called it a ‘Douchebag Party’ (it was my birthday party) and some people came dressed up, but most didn’t.

In the beginning (or was it near the middle) it sort of looked like this:

 

 

I was completely blown away by the awesome presents I got from Peggles and Graumpot – both or those rad motherfuckers got me glasses! And I was stoked! because on a weekly basis I break glasses. How I’m not covered in cuts and gashes from all the glasses I’ve smashed in my life is a total mystery to be, but I swear to God, glasses take one look at me and fucking explode.

So anyway, about a third of the way into the party the tequila arrived, so I rounded up all the man-folk and proceeded to force it down their throats.

 

 

If I could give any advice to anyone at a party EVER, it would be tequila. That’s it. That’s all you need. Just tequila. Open a bottle at a party and become that arsehole that insists on making everyone else drink it.

People will love/hate you, but at least they’ll remember you, your grinning face standing over them as they cringe and their livers fail.

 

 

I have another couple fleeting memories from the party, like when my buddy, we’ll call him Bakerman, arrived with his three cronies and proceeded to pour this potent concoction they had mixed in a watermelon into everyone’s faces.

Then there’s a little static, like when TVs lose their signal, then there was wrestling, man-on-woman.

 

 

Then the sun went down, but some people decided to stay sexy and still wore their bikinis while others looked on, pale and lizzard-eyed.

 

 

From there it’s fucking impossible to remember what the hell went down. The tequila was sucked dry, then a second bottle was produced and also sucked dry. We moved the party back into our flat and rocked the fuck out.

And then Guitar Jon became possessed by Satan Himself and Graum had to be called in to perform an impromptu exorcism.

 

 

Last thing I remember was going to the petrol station to buy ice cream, me, J-Rab and Guitar. I ate mine in the time it took to drive halfway back home and then ate some of J-Rab’s. I would have eaten some of Guitar’s as well, but he didn’t buy ice cream.

He bought pasta salad (?).

Sunday rolled around and all we did really was clean stuff up and try to piece the events of the previous 12 hours back together, but it wasn’t easy.

And now it’s Monday and if I don’t get my face back to the grind soon, there’ll be hell to pay!

-ST

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