Are you sitting down? You. Down. Sit there.
I, me, Krista, Hater Of All Things Beer, was the participant in the unruly event of bonging said beer. I did a beer bong. Not once, but TWICE. TWO BEER BONGS. TWO. DOS. ONE PLUS ONE (equals two). Etcetera, etcetera. Mama's little girl is growing up (or, not growing up? Not sure yet).
Saturday was Krista's Big Day of Drinking. (Read: Krista is NOT a big drinker, so this is the day of all days. The day Krista becomes a man. Er, a beer-drinker. Minus the whole hairy chest idea. My chest, however, isn't bad, and can get my jobs at the UPS Store, which you've already read about, so I'll get to the point now...)
The Fiance and I, and a good 1,784 of our friends (OK, maybe it was only, like, 15, but whatever, when you're drunk numbers are just details) spent the day in Brew City. Milly-Waukee. The city that birthed my (soon to be useless, I'm sure) college degree. We brewery toured (I drank TWO beers. TWO!). We tail-gated (the beer bongs, remember the beer bongs!). And we watched the Milwaukee Brewers lose (I didn't really watch, rather stared into the outfield in a slap-happy daze). And it was goodness.
Now back to the beer bongs. I was already going strong on my fourth Female Beer (Bacardi Silver malt beverages. Mmmm. In FOUR assorted flavors: strawberry, watermelon, apple, peach. Call now for orders! Ahem, ok. Done advertising). Suddenly, someone retrieved the Beer Bong from one of our tail-gating vehicles. Dooming music played darkly in my mind. The skies got cloudy. I got the chills. Beer bongs are for frat boys, Inner Me thought, hastily. Beer bongs are for girls who gained too much in their middles in college from repeated bongings of the beer. Beer bongs are not for ME. Nooo. No way.
But Outter Me? HOLY CRAP BRING IT ON, SUCKERS! (OK, it wasn't so much Outter Me as it was Drunken Me, but regardless, it was going to happen). So I let the boys (the professionals) pick my poison, we loaded up the bong (I SO hate the word bong), and downed it like a trooper. And suddenly, it was like magic, I was one of the men. It was as if I grew testicles or facial hair. People were slapping me high-fives. Several people grabbed my butt cheeks in congratulations. I did it! I'm a real boy!
And then of course I grabbed another Female Beer and continued on my merry (increasingly drunken) way. The Fiance, he was so proud of me, it was as if I never accomplished a thing in my life other than downing Miller Genuine Draft Light through a funnel and a plastic tube. I can only dream of seeing that shining, proud face the day I become a receptionist in The Promised Land, making $7 an hour, waiting tables for additional income, while my $20,000 college degree rots away on my bookshelf. Oh! The pride! (OK, that was a little sassy, but he was quite proud. Hopefully I'll at least see that face on my wedding day).
And then. They brought the bong out. AGAIN. Again, people! Krista, Master of the Beer Bong, was NOT going to turn it down, oh no. She had a reputation to live up to. Like, "Oh my God! Remember that one time Krista did a beer bong!" That. I had that to live up to. So, I did it again.
More high-fives. More ass-grabs. More bong-holders staring at my cleavage. (Wait, what? Seriously. I have proof. We took pictures. Oh, Holy Boobs, which can earn me jobs and free beer, how I love thou.).
And then I continued to drink and sleep through the Losing of the Brewers until it was all over, and I was nestled safely at our next destination: A bar. Crap. I was done for.
But oh, what a night.