The Hangover Diaries: When Brunching Kicks Your Ass
Let me preface this by saying that Il Bastardo is called such because every time we brunch there our experience is eventually bastardized into a monstrous partying clusterfuck that cannot be contained by the reins of decency. It was so debaucherous I am only now recovered enough to write about it.
It started off as a Shindia/Nicmac birthday/welcome brunch. The server immediately hated us since I sat myself next to Jmo, a jew so loud he could out-behar Joy Behar. He and I hadn’t eaten, and weren’t planning to any time soon so we could get good and drunk first. The thing you should know about Il Bastardo is that they serve their mimosas and champagne in glasses so large Somalian Families could feed their entire families rice from one goblet. For a week. So immediately I see Logan at one end of the table beside Nicmac, me and Jmo in the center across from Frecks and his Brazilian boyfriend, and Shindia at the other end. This is the perfect storm brewing–as we were far enough apart to turn the table of 18 ppl into a shitshow but close enough to yell at eachother. Which we inevitably had to do since Il Bastardo thinks they are a daytime version of Studio 54 and tried to drown our faggotry out by turning up the music 2000 decibels.
It didn’t work. If you try to silence a jew you might as well kiss your eardrums goodbye.
So we all got blitzed to the tits and an argument erupted about who had bigger tits–Tangelo or Frecks. Frecks is known for his tits, but though Tangelo appears to be a twink he is packing some orbs under his 2xist inappropriate tankini. Since I am only 110 lbs I decided they should try and benchpress me on the floor of Il Bastardo. Towards the end of the brunch we ended up sitting on a pedestal in the corner instead of at our table like we were in the original Scream movie. The champagne flowed like Hennessey. I am pretty sure it was my idea to venture on to Summer Camp.
I don’t remember much about Summer Camp except I knew a bunch of people there and I was the drunkest of them all. We were eventually persuaded to go down to the Iron Horse in my neighborhood. I normally give cab drivers the benefit of the doubt but the swahili cockface we ended up with tried to take us through soho instead of just driving down 7th. I either bitched him out and gave him a piece of my mind or just think I did.
The Iron Horse is a great bar because it has a swing over the bar and props. And probable bed bugs. So Nicmac and I put on some shit–boxing gloves, firefighter hats etc…Logan was wearing a wig that made him resemble Oprah sans a wig made of virgin orphan pubes. We played a secret spy shooter game which I was surprisingly good at. The night got more and more obscure and ended up with us walking to chipotle wearing sparkly leggings and house slippers and ordering burritos paying with quarters from my quarter jar, which I brought into the restaurant.
Things progressed and I will say this: At one point I called Logan’s job and told him he wasn’t coming in because he was dying. One of the guys that was with us was in a relationship before Sunday. I don’t think he is anymore. When I woke up there was guacamole smeared all over my entire apartment and my show towels were askew. And at one point, the girl we were partying with–named slamitinmyclam poured beer all over my face and bed. I wasn’t even mad. How could I be? I’ve done the same thing to myself countless times.
So that was last Sunday. It is now Friday. Two days until Sunday. My life is spiralling out of control. But this isn’t a cry for help. It is a request for a high five.
Until next time
Here is the standard Hangover Diaries Morning After pic for purposes of continuity.