Friday, February 12, 2010

MessFest (aka Guys Weekend) at the Lake

“No, no, no. I meant to say we were at Cash Bingo,” was the text message on his Blackberry. 9 guys from Lowell stood inside the Looney Bin, faces pressed against the cold plate glass window, watching the entertainment unfold in the Fun Spot parking lot across New Hampshire Route 3. Wait for it…. Wait for it… THERE HE GOES!!! The crowd cheered and 18 arms were raised simultaneously signaling touchdown as Rosco’s black hat came into view through the parked cars and made its way across the parking lot to the Cash Bingo building, his second stop on his search for his friends. The no-strings attached puppet show came courtesy of one really hungover friend and some careful text messaging. It was 2pm and Rosco had awoken from a temporary detoxification slumber in the back seat of a Nissan while the rest of us continued the beer swilling inside the Looney Bin with Michele the bartender and the rest of the regulars. By way of texting, Rosco asked if we had eaten yet. The opportunity was too good to resist. Although we were a mere 50 yards from his car, inside my new favorite bar, the text reply told Rosco that we had gone across the street to Fun Spot. And quicker than Oprah can make a meatball sub disappear, Rosco took the bait. While we all ducked out of view inside the cozy pub, our new puppet slid out of the car and began the 300 yard stroll to the front door of the Fun Spot. The laughing was such that my cheeks started to ache. Why bore you with this story? These are the kinds of things that happen when a group of guys in their late 30’s and early 40’s get together with no wives or kids in sight. Most mature adults might wonder where the entertainment value is in making a grown man walk around in circles – if you can’t see the belly busting humor in that, then you probably don’t laugh during the French castle scene in Monty Python’s Holy Grail and you should probably never come near our WinterFest.
I can only handle it every other year, and at that I cannot even last a full 24 hours. It taxes my system and clouds my thinking. It leads to stories which, if heard by the wrong ears, could destroy careers. But it is worth every fukkin’ moment!! Every year, a bunch of guys, most of whom I have known since high school, meet up at a lake house in February. It has become known as Guys Weekend or WinterFest… but the more accurate name would be Mess Fest. Beer can towers and midnight pizza runs; chili farts and cheeseburger flavored Doritos; Scary Movie 2 and Hangover. It all blends together for a fukkin hell raisers symphony!

So what exactly defines a good guys weekend? It is not a guys weekend until someone drops trow and slaps his pasty white ass cheeks to celebrate a win in 45s. Nor can a guys weekend be complete unless someone falls sound asleep with his forehead on the kitchen table and his knuckles nearly reaching the floor. Guys weekend is 10 grown men sitting in the same room watching Holy Grail, quoting each line out loud in horribly drunken English accents. Guys weekend is 3 crockpots full of chili that are nearly empty by the first night, followed by three days of what always follows chili. Guys weekend is scraping the crusty remains off the bottom of the crockpot on day 3 for breakfast because the Pop Tarts and Devil Dogs are all gone. Guys weekend is bribing the bowling alley clerk to let us borrow the scale so we could declare a winner in the “How Much Does Tiny Weigh This Year” pool. Guys weekend is laughing our asses off as a 50-something bar hag makes the moves on one of us. And guys weekend is trying to decide if the bar hag’s friend looks like the Cowardly Lion or Witchy-Poo from HR Puffinstuff. And guys weekend is celebrating with one of your buddies when he finally has that 50th shot at the Looney Bin and gets his “free” sweatshirt (that cost him $250 in shots).

Not sure if I’ll make it next year – these stories all happened in the 17 hours I spent there. Three days and I might need to hang my liver out to dry.

The stories in this blog are completely true and only the names were changed to protect the fat, drunk and stupid. Well, Rosco and Tiny are made up names, but Oprah really can knock back a meatball sub. Don’t worry Mac – no pictures… Jimmy dropped the camera in the chili.

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