:: We can't do this anymore ::

"I'm like a cannon - built for one shot." - Scott, during a discussion on the difficulty of having sex multiple times in a short period of time.

There was a time - a few years ago now - when getting drunk on both a Friday and a Saturday was not just an amazing, death-defying feat. In fact, it was quite normal. Pick up a case of beer on Friday after work, drink it at somebody's house, maybe go to Shark Club, drink some more. Pass out.

Wake up Saturday, hangover breakfast at Ricky's, then get ready for Saturday. Rinse. Repeat.

This is how it once was. It's not exactly like that anymore. Of course, even back in our halcyon days of alcohol abuse, there would often be one casualty from the night before - one person who went way too hard, and whose hangover was always a bit over the top, compared to the rest.

But this was a minor problem. Hey, sometimes people have to be sacrificed for the greater good, and since most of us survived any given night, we were all OK with it. Sure, you knew that sooner or later your turn would come, but that was seen as a cost of doing business.

But on Saturday night, well, I think Saturday night - Kyle's surprise birthday party - may well have been the tipping point.

There were no survivors.

We started drinking at 6 p.m., which should have perhaps been the first warning sign - it was a little early, and we continued on into the wee hours of the morning (except for Christene and I, we left at 12:30 because we're old). But upon waking up Sunday and surveying the battlefield, there was some pretty serious carnage:

I woke up at 6:30 to the sound of Christene puking. I woke up again about an hour later to this very same sound.

When I eventually crawled out of bed at 10, I felt as bad as I've felt in weeks. I still have the remnants of a headache, and it's Monday morning.

Kelsey and Scott slept the next day until 2:30 p.m., then Kels was up just long enough to yak twice, before heading back to bed at 3:30.

Was Sean hungover? His response on Facebook: "Oh God yes."

And then there was Chris, who arrived home at 5:30 a.m. sans Jenna (who obviously didn't want to stay up that late) and woke up three-and-half hours late for work with blood all over his face. Asked how he came to acquire such injuries, his response was this: "Well, that's the question. I don't have a clue."

And let's not forget our good friend Bobby, who didn't even drink Saturday night because doctor's orders prohibit him from doing anymore damage to his liver. Seriously.

And I haven't actually seen or heard from Ian, Jeremy or even the Birthday Boy himself. Maybe they didn't make it.

God save us all on New Year's Eve.

:: Adventures in Text Messaging ::

Minutes ago, my office phone rang. I picked it up, and instantly heard a recorded message. The pleasant-sounding robo-voice told me that I had received a text-message from a Rogers Wireless customer. This was weird, because not a lot of people have my work number, and those that do are not likely to send me a text message.

But I pushed 1 anyway, to listen to the message, and then the Stephen Hawking-esque voice told relayed to me the following message:

"I once sliced a piece of deli meat so thin it was invisible."

This is the text message some random person – with a number I didn't recognize – deemed necessary to send to my desk. I was baffled, to say the least.

I instantly began trying to figure out who this message-sender was, and my first suspect was Mike (as it usually is when weird, random things happen). Also, years ago he sent a voice/text message to my house at Christmas time.

I then Googled the phrase, to see if it was some long-lost quote or inside joke from our Kamloops days. I thought maybe it was from Space Ghost, or Strong Bad, or something similar. The search came up empty though.

I then realize the number was 604 area code, so Mike was quickly ruled out.

Turns out it's actually a Seinfeld quote – when Kramer gets the meat slicer. And after quickly scrolling through the numbers in my cell phone, the culprit was, in hindsight, a likely one:

Kyle. I should've known.

"Oh, that was meant for your cell phone," was his response.

Ya think?

:: Truck? What Truck? ::

Me: So you bought that truck for sure, then?
Bucholtz: Yeah, but don't tell anybody. I don't want to help people move.
Me: Nobody's moving. Who don't you want to help?
Bucholtz: Anybody. Especially that Ian.
Me: Well, alright, but you realize you can't exactly hide a truck that big, right? It's an F350 - not exactly stealth.
Bucholtz: We see about that.

From the "What kind of answer did you expect?" department...
Me: What other kind of job could you see me doing?
Buchs: I dunno...condom taster?

Buchs: I know! You should go to Iraq.
Me: And do what, exactly?
Buchs: I don't know...go hang out with Connie Chung and Geraldo Paldorrama, or whatever.
Me: You mean Rivera?
Buchs: Whatever. How 'bout baboon trainer? You know anything about monkeys?
Me: No.
Buchs: Shit, 'cuz that'd be awesome.

:: Playing through the hurt ::

I'm sitting here, at 2:37 p.m. on a Friday, with my usual vodka/redbull on the desk beside me (I also had a beer with my 1 p.m. "breakfast"...which was tacos.)

Kyle Bucholtz is hundreds of miles north, freezing his sack off in Dawson Creek.

So who ever said I needed Bucholtz in order to drink on a Friday afternoon? (Well, besides A-Scrams, who called me at noon basically taunt me for not having my drinking partner. But in my defence, I'd rather have no drinking partner for a few weeks than no partner for...other stuff. So the joke's on you.)

Besides, I'm drinking anyway.

I wasn't going to, in part because I have a work function (also involving booze) slated for 4 p.m., and also because I wasn't really sure I wanted to drink by myself.

But then I thought about all the times athletes play after deaths in their family, or some other tragedy. Like the time Brett Favre's dad died and he went out for the Monday Night game and threw for 400 yards.

"I knew that my dad would have wanted me to play," Favre said. "I love him so much, and I love this game. It's meant a great deal to me, to my dad, to my family, and I didn't expect this kind of performance. But I know he was watching tonight."

And, while I know I'm blowing this way out of proportion because a) Buchs is not dead and b) I'm not Brett Favre, I decided to begin the drinking process early, as per our custom.

Because that's the way Buchs would want it.

I also decided to blow it way out of proportion because I've been hurtin' for a post lately, but that's neither here nor there.

So I'm drinking. Not a ton, certainly not normal Nick-Kyle Friday levels, but that's because I have to drink in 40 minutes, and also because, well...it just hurts so damn much. (que phony tears and violin music).

"God I love vodka. It just sneaks up on you - it's like a silent assasin." - Me

"Wow, its like 5 o'clock and I haven't said anything stupid yet that you would put on your blog. What the hell is going on?" - Bucholtz

After Bucholtz found out the best man in some (all?) East Indian weddings ends up with a lot of cash...
Buchs: Hurry up and get married Bobby. I need some money.
Bobby: Well, help find me a wife first then dammi–.
Buchs: AMANDA!!!

Ouch. Although, in Amanda's favour, that's probably an upgrade. (Just kidding Buchs)

So, another weekend.

I haven't been in a posting mode lately, which you've probably noticed. And even after a pretty solid weekend – a long weekend, even – like we've just had, I'm still not really feelin' it. So bear with me. It's not necessarily that I don't feel like it, I guess, it's more like I don't have anything to say. We'll see how much I can write...

This weekend was the usual, although fairly low-key - for me, anyhow. Started off Friday as it usually does, with me and Buchs sitting in my living room at about 3:30 drinking a couple (or 6) beers. Went quickly down to Sam's for a few pints and tequila shots with Chris, Jenna, D-Mac, and Chris's boss Mike (Now I know two funny brown guys! Solid.)

Anyhow, we ended up at Derrick's after that, chillin in the garage/TV room. It was a little chilly, but it was still a pretty good time - after awhile most people showed up, had some drinks, and then, starving as I hadn't ate anything since 11:30 a.m., me and Buchs headed back to my place, with a quick Subway stop first.

Normally, Subway after midnight is pretty uneventful - I know this well, having made Subway a regular late-night stop. But I'd never been there with a drunk Bucholtz before. Within 5 minutes, he'd managed to make fun of the two 18-year-old douchebags in front of us in the line, confuse the "sandwich artist" about his choice of sub, and then throw the whole thing - my order too - on his Visa for some reason.

There was a minor altercation as we drove away, which basically just involved the two aforementioned douchebags yelling at us for making fun of them, Bucholtz hollering and laughing at them, and me driving away.

The rest of the night was pretty uneventful, it involved watching about half of 8 Mile, watching Buchs spill his sandwich onto the rain-soaked courtyard outside my front door (and then scooping it all back up again, good as new...mmm), and then going to bed. I woke up at 4 a.m. and found Bucholtz passed out on my couch, snoring loud as a friggin chainsaw, dvd player still on. And, for some reason, the fireplace too.

Saturday was Scotty's birthday extravaganza, which was supposed to begin at Montana's, but due to ridiculous 2-hour wait times, began at Red Robin instead - apparently the only place in Langley capable of seating 16 people on short notice. (As an aside, when did restaurants stop taking reservations? How is this in any way, shape or form good for business? Turning away 16 people who are going to eat, and most likely drink, a significant amount? Genius. Fucking idiots, I say.)

So Robin's it was, complete with onion ring towers, fried cheese, and Scott standing on his seat getting sung too. After that, it was back to Scott's place for drinking, drinking, and some more drinking, courtesy of bartender-Scott, who busted out all kinds of booze, which he'd apparently been saving for such an occassion. Broken-down golf carts, paralyzers, vodka, and some new creations, which including redbull and cranberry juice, and one with lemon gatorade.

I'd like to say I partook in the festivities as much as everyone else, but i did not. This was due somewhat to the fact that I didn't really feel like getting blitzed, but also because I had no ride home, and was not about to a) leave my car all the way in South Surrey or b) stay there. So I took it easy. Couple drinks, couple shots, one typical conversation with a drunken Sean in the driveway and home I went.

But not before I saw way too much guy-ass for my liking. Ridiculous fellas, ridiculous.