Drunk Friday Shopping, Metaphorical Titties

It turns out I only write on this thing when I'm at least a couple of beers into the day, which means A) the blog is probably pretty terrible, B) the blog probably has many grammatical errors, and C) I have some apologizing to do. But I have to say something else about Friday, so let's just get this over with.

My mom took me and Levi out for drinks Friday night to celebrate Levi's manly demolition of an old shed and fence and his rebuilding of a new fence. We headed to a little joint that happens to be about 100 yards from the new IKEA where I hear people are still parking miles away from so they can wait in long lines to buy Swedish shelf-organizing units and inexpensive meatballs. The meatballs I understand -- they're delicious and don't require assembly. I drank two beers, then my mom couldn't finish her post-margarita beer, so I took it, at which point she starting chanting with bang-on-the-table hand motions "Chug-a-lug! Chug-a-lug!" Does the woman who gave birth to you do that? It was eye-opening, to be sure, but I decided I was pretty okay with my mother encouraging my consumption of alcohol, plus I didn't want to know what kind of a grounding not chug-a-lugging would mean, so I chug-a-lugged my mom's beer. So we're done drinking and are all a little tipsy -- maybe from the beer, maybe from the blinding light of the IKEA sign -- and I have this terrible idea that we should all walk over to Ross and go drunk shopping. You know how ideas go when everyone's drunk. It's like a Michele Bachmann campaign speech -- every idea seems like a great idea. But because you're a little inebriated (by beer, by all the attention you're getting for flashing your big booby political ideas from your campaign bus), you forget that those periodicals you've been reading for all of these years aren't newspapers at all, but church bulletins, so your campaign speech is informative and inspirational only to the degree that knowing the Cure-the-Gays clinic has switched to Tuesday nights is informative and inspirational. By the way, the Cure-the-Gays clinic would never be allowed to switch nights. They get Wednesday night, and it stays Wednesday night forever. None of that Tuesday-curious bullshit. Am I right? So, yeah, great idea! Let's stumble over to the third world shopping nation that is Ross and buy stuff! And we did. Levi has like fifteen new shirts right now, and he hasn't had a new shirt since he was eight. And my mom bought a candle shaped like an elephant. Meanwhile I was in the petite section passed out under a pantsuit. So this was some serious drunkafied success. Thank you, beer, for your strange powers. And thank you, Michele Bachmann, for the metaphorical titties.