Not long after Team Evil finished its triumph, someone came up to me and said, “There’s a big problem in your upstairs bathroom.”
Never has a bigger understatement ever been sbobet spoken. I’m not going to go into the details, but somebody out there is one gross son of a bitch and if I ever find out who left my john that way, I’m coming to your house with G-Rob.
Twenty minutes later, I was still in the bathroom with a plunger. Mrs Otis rushed in with a look of urgency on her face.
“You’ve got to let this go,” she said, a bit out of breath.
“I can’t,” I said. “If I do, people might start doing this in the yard.”
“No, really” she said. “The girls need you to hold the hose for their wet t-shirt contest.”
Somewhere around three seconds later, I’d hung an “Out of Order” sign on the door and was outside with a water hose in my hand. In front of me, four girls stood in ripped Hooters shirts, begging to be soaked down. A crowd had formed around them. I grabbed Dr. Jeff and asked him to run around to the side of the house and turn on the water.
He looked at me with more seriousness than I’ve seen in his face in years. He spoke calmly, but pointedly. “If you start this before I get back…” His threat trailed off as he darted away.
I felt the hose in my hand fill and get hard. Dr. Jeff ran back from the other side of the house with a trail of men behind him. When it was all set, I pulled the trigger and proceded to completely soak four large-breasted women. Somehow I saw more than I expected…and yet, was left wanting more.
I guess that was the point. All eight of them.
After conscripting a oung girl to carry me to the store and begging the clerk to open up for one more sale, I replenished the beer supply. The keg had floated an hour before and the four cases of beer I had behind were almost gone. Along with the gallons of Soco, Vodka, Rum, Gin, Tequila, and the rest of the bar, the partiers had put a serious dent in a paycheck’s worth of booze. I was so proud.
But, there comes a time, after months of planning, weeks of work, and a day full of stress that a host has to simply say, “Fuck it,” and put the show on auto-pilot. So, I did.
Of course, when the party goes on auto-pilot, Otis goes to the bar. Eva, the hardest working woman in boozing, kept me happy all night. And as such, the night fell into brief, but I’m sure very meaningful, conversations.
At one point, someone came back with a report from the back yard. Team Scott Smith had climbed the the top of a Bradford Pear and was jumping back and forth between two trees like a giant Gene Wilder-esque Monkey. I asked that someone get him down, which they did. It only served free team Scott Smith to find the tallest tree in the yard, a giant Sweet Gum, which he climbed and probably should’ve died as a result.
Before I knew it, I was embarassing myself with a guitar, chatting up the locals, and trying to hold a conversation with Iggy and Daddy. My conversational skills, much like my musical talents, had degenerated as I entered the early morning hours. All I know is that I ended up at Waffle House with my beer still in my hand.
I took out the trash tonight. It took me half an hour. I just finished the dishes today. I surveyed the bar and couldn’t believe how little was left.
I never got a good count on the number of people at the party, but, frankly, it doesn’t matter. It was the best Bradoween ever and it was because of all the people who came from near and far.
ight now, I’m a lot like I was when I was four years old and the Charlie Brown special would end. I’d cry because it was so good and I knew I wouldn’t see it again for a long time.
With that in mind, I think there is only one ay to handle the post party depression.