The Bridal Shower (wait for it...) FROM HELL

You may be wondering how it is that I go from the proposal directly to the bridal shower. What about all the other stuff? Well, there's two main reasons for the gap:

1. I am male, I do not care about wedding planning crap, so it did not register with me
2. I drink

If I think of anything that happened during that time, I'll add a post, or possibly insert it stream-of-conscience style in the middle of another story. But back to the bridal shower.

The bridal shower was to take place April 8th. The reason I know this is that it was the evening of the infamous Floyd Mayweather, Jr. - Zab Judah fight. Y'know, as I write this, I'm mildly concerned about the fact that I remember events in life based on the boxing matches that took place on the days in question. Ah well, que sera. Anyway, the bridal shower. The plan was for the shower to be a fairly informal, pot-luck event. Hosting it would be the parents (okay, the mother) of Jill, best friend to both my sister and the bride-to-be. I share an apartment with my sister, and was concerned the shower would be at our place, so finding out it was not was a huge relief. Knowing that they would be occupied with that crap -excuse me, with "planning the shower"- I figured I would celebrate by coming to Hoboken and getting sloppy drunk during the day, before returning home to a blessedly empty apartment and watching the fight on pay-per-view.

Part one of the plan went down without a hitch, and as I staggered up my front steps, I was relieved to see that the living room light was off. Yes, the plan was for the shower to be elsewhere, but I wouldn't truly believe it until I saw the empty household.

It turns out, I'm pretty damned smart. Upon opening the door, my ears were greeted by a chattering cacophony, much as one hears upon walking into an aviary at the zoo or the parakeet section of a large pet store. Through the darkness, I could see a girl passed out on the couch, curled in a sated looking fetal position. The kitchen, the preferred socializing spot of my sister and her friends, was brightly lit, a thick haze of smoke emanating from it. Naturally, being the rational, sober individual I am, I handled this unexpected hurdle with calmness, grace and dignity. I can not remember my exact words, but I recall saying (yell-slurring) something along the lines of "All I wanted to do was watch the Goddamned fight but Lauren is passed out in there--" At this point, my sister cut me off.

"Go ahead, she's fine." Hmm. Then the passed out girl's sister chimed in. "Turn on the lights, turn on the TV, she won't notice. Hell, you could sit on her head and she wouldn't wake up." Tempting, but I was really looking forward to the fight and wanted to devote my full attention to it. I turned on the fight, and was about to settle into the couch (it sags a bit; "into" is, in this case, a completely literal phrase) when I realized something: I needed beer! I checked with the hens, and they suggested buying a full 24, just in case, even though they had already gone through (and this is an exact measure) a whopping shitload of wine. So I hopped in my car (hmm, guess if I was driving I must not have been that drunk...hahahahahahaha) and drove to the liquor store, returning with my 24 bottles just in time for the first undercard.
[to be continued]