Got pretty hammied last night. We went to Brother's (holler!) which is basically Lawrence's version of El Roco, only with an increased chance of getting stabbed in the bathroom for wearing your hat backwards. They had dollar jag bombs, which allowed me to run around all night yelling "fuckin' jagerbombs" in a New York accent and pointing at nothing in particular. If you don't get that joke or you are a newcomer to The Slice, go back a few posts and watch the new haircut link.
Well everyone knows dollar jag bombs + Skye's friend Amy in town + Budweiser promo (free beer for us) = plane crash. It was Jud's de facto birthday, and by the end of the night he was stumbling around like a baby horse with one of its legs broken. What's a baby horse called? A colt? Whatever. Lane busted out his Techno Ball, which is pretty much the most ridiculously funny thing I've ever seen, especially when he starts getting strangers involved. This is gonna be a little tough to describe without any visual aids, but I'll give it a whirl: Basically he takes an imaginary ball and starts out pretending to dribble it, spin it on his finger, flick it over to balance it on his nose, back to his finger, holding it there while I spin it, etc. etc. Like everything else we do, it escalates, and pretty soon he's dribbling around the bar, going between his legs, around the back, and finding people who want to participate. A surprising number of people are pretty excited about it, and after a while, we see Lane out on the dance floor, standing about 10 feet away from this black guy, and they are taking turns freestyling with the ball and passing it back and forth to each other, being careful not to "hit" any of the people who were out there shakin' their tailfeathers. Unbelievable. Lane, you are my hero.
So by this point I'm doing shots, double and triple-fisting beer and skinny pirates, and I'm so special-sauced that the idea forms in my head that Kirk Hinrich's little brother is at the bar. I should tell you that I don't even know if Hinrich has a little brother, much less a brother that lives in Lawrence, but this makes no difference to me at the time. So now I'm stealing RaLynn's camera and pretending to take pictures of the girls, but really I'm taking pictures of Little Hinrich. Here's one of them. Should give you a little idea how F'd I was. Little Hinrich is the one in the yellow-striped shirt.
Holy, I'm an idiot. That doesn't look like him at all. This is not unlike the time in Vegas I was absolutely convinced that Doug Flutie intentionally shoulder bumped me by the blackjack tables in New York, New York. What can I say, alcohol is a hell of a drug.
OK I'm out, Jimmy John's is here to save my life, and I think Daytona might be starting soon. Random memory: when I was a kid, our church was temporarily homeless while the new building was being constructed, so they rented out a pavilion in the South Forks Plaza. It was right across the hall from the video arcade, and when the congregation would get quiet to pray, if you were sitting in the back, you could hear the "Daaaayyyyyytoooooooon-aaaaaaaa!!!!!!!" from the arcade. Awesome.
Hey how about that I just finished with a story about praying, thus making my title relevant, instead of just an MC Hammer reference. I wasn't even trying to do that. That's a little twofer for you guys. You're welcome.
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