- stopped over and Wang Chunged with us
- put a dent in the keg and the wading pool of food that everyone brought
- signed the wall of shame
- took the chance to mingle with total strangers
- listened to my bandmates and I slosh through a few tunes (and even applauded afterwards.. wow)
- Thank you so much for all of the bottles of wine. Not too many people labeled them, so we're not sure who half of them are from. Great googley moogley - there's prolly more than a dozen bottles there. And we'll be sure to put them to good use.
There is a select group of those who couldn't make it out and said they would... hey man, it's your funeral. You missed the Doodie The Clown, famous for twisting inflated condoms into lifelike sloths. You also missed The Great Zamboni, the world renouned poodle trainer and his 5 dogs who jump through flaming hoops whilst blindfolded and barking the theme to Sanford and Son. One dog caught fire, and she tasted hella delicious - "Zeese eese why I allvays breeng 5 doags," he said. "Eef vun burns, choo haff a decent meal for zee crowd and zaire's steel 4 doags left!"
This was the first time that direct family members from her side and mine got to meet in person. Everyone got along just peachy and laughed and had a good time.
Now onto the rest of my story.
Anyone who knows me well enough knows that I seem to be incapable of farting. I try and I try, but to no avail, it just doesn't happen. I want to fart. Seriously. Farting is funny. To me, there's nothing more comical than a well-timed and executed fart. Oh, what I would give if I could simply just float an air biscuit while waiting in line somewhere or at Blockbuster video when somebody was kneeling down at 2nd shelf level reading the back of a DVD box.
To kick things off at the party, my mum brought over a bubbling cauldron full of her delishish shloppy joe meat. There it sat in her electric pan: oodles of perfectly browned ground beefs swimming in a pool of mysteriously spiced, savory orangish dark-brown liquids. When my sis opened up the door to her car and I reached in to obtain the pot of slops to carry it upstairs, two things crossed my mind: 1) Yum. And 2) Maybe tonight will be the night?
I carefully brought it up, set it on our American Idol tablecloth, and plugged 'er in. Mum then brought up yet another cauldron, this one full of homemade baked beans. Oooh yes. Tonight was going to be the night, alright. I had my giant bottle of Tabasco sauce slightly chilled and at the ready.
As the evening commenced, I had me some slops completely immersed in Tabaska sauce. And then 2 bowls of baked beans. I warshed it all down with cup after cup of delicious keg beer and waited for divine gaseous intervention. I had a pile of my sister's awesome spinachk dip on the side, and some butt-tayta salad to boot.
Nothing.
An hour or so later, Iced Ink drummer Barry and his wifey-poo Lindsay strutted through the door. Barry brought his incredibly delicious and perfectly almost-too-spicy homemade bean dip, and Lindsay had a jar of her intense cosmic homemade salsa which was so yummy that when combined with Barry's bean dip, I began hallucinating and wanted to break into a frenzy of violent bliss after I ate a plate full. It was that damned good. Those two folks are a spicy condimentary match made in heaven.
I topped it all off with 2 of my mum-in-law-to-be's delectable holier-than-thou Cajun Mary Meatballs. It was the perfect icing on the cake. Everything I needed for the ultimate butt trumpet symphony had been consumed. There were Flavorgasms aplenty. I was certain that trouble was a brewin' downstairs in the walls of me belly, and this really got my hopes up. Tonight's the night, I kept thinking. I began to perspire and became anxious to get a-gassin'.
Nothing.
The party was over, and I put all of the foods away. There was a pretty big serving of baked beans left that didn't fit into the Tupperware, so down my hatch they went in a last ditch effort, complete with a hearty splash of Tabasco. I waited patiently for at least one little toot while nursing my last beer.
Nothing. Not even a mild cramp. I thought maybe I'd wake up in the wee hours with a crazy stomach just ready to blow the roof off of our place, but nope.
Nothing.
And so today, I am officially retiring any hopes of ever farting again. I used to when I was a wee lad, but I seem to have lost the ability over the years. It just wasn't meant to be. Some people can't see, some can't hear... I can't gas.
Next time you've got access to foods that you know will cause a serious ruckus strictly in the farting sense, be sure to have a little extra for me, if you will. And keep your hands off of that damned vial of Bean-O, if you will. If you're going to do it for me, I ask that you do it all the way.
I, Micycle Tricycle, am hanging up my fart belt for good.
Thank you and goodnight.
