Pass the Tequila, and the Untag Button.

Sometimes I’m not sober. 

I know that’s a shock to all of you, and we’ll have a moment of silence at the end of this post to let you gather yourself so you can move forward with your day.

I have always prided myself on my ability to hold liquor. Sure, I make some questionable statements, play too many games of “slap for slap” and become irrationally intent on proving how tough I am, but overall, I keep my puking/crying/drunk-drama to a minimum.

I also have a memory like an elephant, and unfortunately for me, can usually recall the shit that pours out of my mouth when the hooch has me in its sweaty grip.

For years, I would be the one responsible for reminding people what they did the night before. Chances are if you woke up half under my bed, wearing only a crossing guard vest, spooning a pylon with “RIGHT SAID FRED” written across your chest in lipstick, I’d be able to give you the play by play of your shameful escapades.

But the years have not been so kind to this ol’ memory of mine. We can all speculate as to why my brain lags sometimes, but you’re welcome to keep your opinions to yourself, asshole.   The point is, my drunkventures have become a little bit patchier than they used to be. This means 3 things:  1) Sunday morning usually resembles some sort of still-drunk scavenger hunt for my own belongings, 2) I spend the day logged into Facebook, waiting for the impending untagfest, and 3) I will receive several calls throughout the day from fellow bed-ridden partybeasts looking for some clarity on their poor life choices.

And while I may no longer be the best go-to resource for piecing together your disaster of a life, I vow to be supportive, use some judgment when I upload my pictures and next time I pass you that bottle of tequila, I’ll promise to take you for street “meat”* afterwards. Because that shit IS what dreams are made of. 

*I use the term ‘meat’ loosely. I’m a vegetarian, and I don’t give a shit if you have a problem with that.  You eat meat; you don’t eat meat, whatever. I don’t care. Veggie street meat is the shiz. End of story.

*** 

Some of you may be looking for a Thanksgiving recap, and this, my friends, is not where you’ll find it… Not today, anyway. I ate/drank too much and my brain has yet to regain full functionality.

I’m going to go drink some wine and find a park somewhere.

Cheers.

**

P.S. After some brief and informative research on slag terms for booze, I've located a new favourite, as per this site: 

The Porch Climber: A Canadian slang, Porch Climber refers to someone who is extremely drunk or in the state of intoxication.

I'm sorry, but do we have a problem with people climbing porches in Canada? Is this some sort of epidemic I'm unaware of?  If so, how can I get on that train? I do enjoy a good porch. 

Meet Keith: He Probably Eats Poop.

I recently posted about my raccoon problem.

While thankful the gods have not blessed me with another gift’o’fetus, I have developed a new, budding relationship with Keith, the potentially-Irish teenage raccoon of doom. He’s snarky, rude, dismissive and has clearly eaten one-too-many garbage cakes, if you know what I mean. Bitch could use some of Jose’s help. Jussayin’.

Throughout the summer, many guests of my back porch (heh heh, my back porch) were forced to scramble inside out of fear. The glowing green eyes peering from the roof were daunting, and merely the beginning.  The not-so-little shit would pop out from behind furniture and fearlessly lower himself from the roof, proving he don’t care about nobody.  

Not on my porch, Keith.

Learning quickly that raccoons will do whatever the fuck they want, I decided to make it a little bit more effort for them. Hoping this would encourage them to GTFO my property and find another poor sucker to rub their feces all over. After moving around the furniture (or ‘hide and go seek’ spots that Keith so fondly inhabits), I stacked all of the chairs atop the god-forsaken-fetus-tarp that I’ve been meaning to get rid of…

A couple of days later, I came home after work to this:

Fanfuckingtastic!

 NOT ON MY WATCH, KEITH.

You can't see his giant ass 'cuz it's hidden by the pile of chairs.
Note: Fetus-Tarp

Planning on spending some quality sun time on my porch, I quickly got myself into quite a tizzy.  Don’t stand in my way of sunshine and patio time, you rabielicious bum.

Oh! I’m sure you’re wondering why this raccoon has been deemed a “teenager”. Let me enlighten you with the conversations that transpired after discovering him relaxing surrounded by my pile’o’chairs.

Conversations with Keith

Me:  (Upon discovering raccoon) Hey! What do you think you’re doing!?

Keith: Looks up. Seemingly unalarmed by the raging human.

Me: Did you move all this stuff on your own?

Keith: Stares blankly.

Me: I know you did this. You’ve created a lot of mess here. It’s time for you to leave.

Keith: I’m just going to sit here and stare at you and make loud huffing noises until you let me go back to sleep.

Me: I don’t think so, buddy. It’s after 4pm, you need to get the fuck off my property.

Keith: HISS

Me: Goddammit, Keith.

I had to leave to go to Boot Camp, which meant I was out of the house for about two hours.  Upon my return, I checked the back porch. Guess who decided to get a bit more comfortable?

Me:  You have got to be kidding me. It’s AFTER 7 O’CLOCK!

Keith: Continues to sleep and ignores my yelling.

Me:  HEY! YOU! Under MY roof, you will follow MY rules.  No more sleeping in! No more knocking down my shit! No more hanging out on my porch!

Keith: Looks up at me and stares. Completely unaffected by all of the rules I just schooled him with.

Me: I don’t speak raccoon.  Do you speak piece-of-wood-to-the-face?

I then proceeded to swing the piece of plywood my landlord decided to leave behind on one of his many attempted home-reno projects.  Bear in mind, I was still like 2 meters away from the beast.

Ineffective.

Me: No? Do you speak pile-of-chairs-on-your-face?

Cut to me kicking some chairs around like a bloody lunatic.

Keith: Is that all you got bitch? I’m going back to fucking sleep. Come back when you grow some balls.*

*I can only assume he said that, because he then turned his head away from me and nestled it back into the fetus-tarp, returning to his deep, douchey slumber.

I yelled some more stuff about how he’s irresponsible and needs to get his act together, but at this point, he was giving me the ole’ ‘get out of my room’ silent treatment, so I gave up and went back inside.

He eventually left to eat poop or chase children, or whatever it is raccoons do. But I know he’s been back, because he ate my bananas.  But that’s a story for another day.

P.S. If you’re wondering why he’s potentially Irish, you can thank my Roommate.

She explains:

“I met this Irish guy in a bar once. His name was Keith, but he pronounced it ‘Keet’ (because he was Irish). Our conversation went like this:  What's your name? Keet. What? Keet. What? Keet. What? Keet. And so on.

Point being, I think Keith should be an Irish raccoon so I can call him Keet.”


***

Updated: I do not feed Keith. The bananas were part of a long, sordid, hungover, locked-out of the house adventure.  Another day, folks.