Orders from Captain Zeep.

You know it was a good party when you wake up the next morning still wearing a sombrero.

And, hey, why is there KY in my hair?
How did I get this black eye?
And where did my pants go?



I was in such a state when I got home last night, that I passed out on my couch, and when I woke up this morning, I was on the kitchen floor. Mysterious.

Bri Guy's ice luge parties are steadily becoming the hottest annual event in E-town since St. What's-his-name's Feast at the Italian American. Last year at Brian's house, Harmonious made the Weekly Dig Exit Polls with this little nugget of joy: "Abraham Lincoln had some weird disease that made his fingers and toes really long. He liked potatoes."
Poignant.
Anyway, there was a pretty good turn out this year. Harmonious manned the luge with her kamikaze McGuyver-esque drink mixing skills. Truly, that girl can make a tasty, fruity libation out of gasoline and Old Spice.
And it always has a fruit garnish.





And how about that robot?



What fuzzy, incoherent, lunatic memories I have of last evening's festivities bear a striking resemblance to the Circus-Circus scene in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas:

"You approach the turnstiles leading into the Circus-Circus, and you know that when you get there, you have to give the man two dollars or he won't let you inside... but when you get there, everything goes wrong: you misjudge the the distance to the turnstile and slam against it, bounce off and grab hold of an old woman to keep from falling, some angry Rotarian shoves you and you think: What's happening here? What's going on? Then you hear yourself mumbling: 'Dogs fucked the Pope, no fault of mine. Watch out! ... Why money? My name is Brinks; I was born... born? Get sheep over side... women and children to armored car... orders from Captain Zeep."



Yeah. It was a lot like that.
Except we had beer pong.

If anyone knows the whereabouts of my pants, please let me know.