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It's been a while since you pulled a Phil's double-header; long enough, in fact, that the last time you can recall spending an entire weekend in Waterloo's dirtiest basement was first year and you were hardcore making out on the dance floor. You got kicked out for using too much tongue.

Now you laugh at kids doing the exact same thing, and wonder if you looked quite that stupid and fish-faced back when you didn't give a fuck about anything but getting some. The answer is "probably". You try not to judge too too much, but every once in a while you'll catch the eye of a stumbler and the laughter will bubble up inside your skin. A few more rum and cokes and you won't be able to hold; composure is slipping.

Popular Jackie leans against a post, drunk as shit. STAMOS! you yell in unison. STAMOS! Every girl that walks between you two chooses to brush her breasts against Jackie's and not yours. STAMOS! She forgot her camera, and if she hadn't, there would've been pictures. For the record, you forgot your camera too.

Dave Wellhauser is in a corner, huge beard in tow, and waves you over congenially. Wellhauser is some kind of magic: by now you've gotten used to his random appearances. He's absent for months and suddenly, miraculously, he's there, here. Eventually there's no room for surprise. You ask him about how his campaign hat appeared on Trailer Park Boys and he tells you that he's working on bringing Ricky, Julian and Bubbles down for a kegger in early August. Dave is always, always, promoting - a tireless contributer to whatever project (or ten) he's got on the go. August, he says? You're totally there.

A fight breaks out (surprise!) and the dredlocked bouncer who lived beside you a few summers ago applies a fearsome headlock to one of the would-be combatants. From what you saw, he spent most of his time outside tuning his motorcycle and ferrying girls around on said motorcycle, but he must've been working out too. Encircled by a beefy arm, the kid's face turns beet-red and his limbs go limp. The battle is over quickly.

A very-feminist girl who once accused you of promoting misogyny and rape dances vigorously on one of the fine stripper poles that make Phil's so classy. You aren't sure if this constitutes irony, but you are very amused. She is a surprisingly good dancer.

For admitted non-dancers, Kate and green-eyed Scutt dance a lot. You spin. She spins. It's clumsy and amazing. Your idea of dancing usually constitutes playful mockery of 80s disco (the Shopping Cart! The Lawnmower! Sprinkle That Garden!) and retarded headbanging. Double-fisting makes things difficult, but you proudly spill ZERO drinks - an admirable feat amongst the wobbly-legged masses.

As the night dies, you and Tim watch for marijuana; the cupboard is bare at home. One by one you abandon opportunities - can't cockblock, can't impose. Eventually the quest becomes futile and the only thing you can do is shake your fists with comic abandon at the asbestos ceiling and vandalize posters on your walk home. The drink proves to be more than enough substance abuse for the night, and you gleefully smoke a cigarette inside because none of your roommates are around.

The next day, you write a synopsis of your night and cackle maniacally at those who will spend their precious minutes reading a post with absolutely no insight or redeeming value. Suckers!

Posted by Chris at 12:38 PM >> Commentations (3)