Nightmare on M Street (and Oh Yeah, the SOX ARE WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS...AGAIN!)

Days till Halloween: 2 (!!!!!!!)

CONGRATULATIONS TO THE RED SOX, THE 2007 WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Second Series Sweep - "We Will Fuck Your Shit Up"

In case you weren't aware, because you're an antisocial freak or are locked in an epic battle of D&D (okay, same thing) the Red Sox are fucking WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS! We swept our second series since 2004, proving that we have the biggest, most succulent balls in the entire MLB franchise. We're like the Chuck Norris of baseball: The Red Sox do not wear condoms. Because there is no such thing as protection from The Red Sox.

Sox babies aside, the final game was a great one (though I nearly had an aneurysm when Atkins hit that 2 run homer), with Papelbon brought in to spank the Rockies within an inch of their lives, and clinch the series for us. The things that I would do to that man are far too graphic to be printed in this public blog (which, knowing the things I usually say, is really saying something.)

Merry Fucking Christmas, Bitches

The rest of the weekend was just as magical, as it was the famed Nightmare on M Street (as you can tell, I've found the color button) on Saturday night. The great thing about Halloween weekend is that as adults, we are completely entitled to go outside in as little clothing as possible, and no one is allowed to even blink an eye. It is the one night of the year (or several nights, depending on how many parties you go to) where you can saunter out your front door in a bra, garters and booty shorts, and you're not considered a complete maniac. Or Paris Hilton.

I decided to put a shirt on with that ensemble, but pretty much left very little to the imagination. And you can't say shit, cause it's a holiday. At least I don't do it on Christmas, though Red Sox Santa up there might approve. Being the original and creative genius that I am, I went as a "pirate" with - get this! - a belt, some knee high black leather boots, some gold hoop earrings, and a sash tied around my head. Genius! If that's not forging a new path, then I just don't know what is.

The crawl hit a number of big DC bars, including Rumors, The Madhatter, McFadden's, The Front Page, Ozio, Porters, and several others that I forget and don't feel like looking up. It probably should've been called a bar stop, however, as it took close to 45 minutes to actually get inside a bar, and at that point you were stone cold sober again and so in need of a plethora of alcohol that you couldn't bear to even think about leaving for another place.

I have no witty caption for this flyer

We ended up at Madhatter's, a place usually described as a "meat market" for the single-and-twenty crowd. I really hate the term "meat market," because it makes me think first of movies like Hostel, in which people are butchered for the sole joy of human butchering (much like my upstairs neighbor's nightly activities), and then of gay porn. Because seriously, when else do you use the term "meat" besides in those two genres?

During our wait in line, we were privileged to see a wide variety of fascinating costumes, including - but not limited to - these following gems:

Used Tampon: A guy wore a white one-piece long underwear suit, stuck some rope on his ass, put on a red swimming cap, and voila! Soiled female sanitary object! If that doesn't rake the ladies in, then there's no hope for mankind.

Chlamydia-Riddled Vagina: In keeping up with the night's female reproductive organ theme, a girl literally wore a giant vagina strapped to her chest, with an overflow of white, cheesy-looking discharge spewing forth from the fake orifice. She took particular pleasure in shaking it around at us, while joined - no lie - by Crabs, and her other diseased friends.

Legends of the Hidden Temple Teams: Thankfully, not everyone indulged in disgusting shows of the female form. We actually saw several people (mostly in teams), dressed up as the duos from The Legends of the Hidden Temple, complete with pendants and everything. It rocked so hard, I can't even explain.

Okay, so everything after that was pretty standard fare: naughty nurses abounded, cops and robbers walked hand-in-hand, carrots and bananas roamed the streets, and pimps and their hos made the rounds. It really was a magical night.

Where the magic happens, baby

After learning my lesson from last week, I decided it would be smarter to drink less (5 beers as opposed to 10 mixed drinks - man, am I evolving or something?) and hooch myself out more. Wait. Fuck. Bad decisions were made, pictures were taken, and I had the most romantic thing whispered in my ear: "Don't worry, baby, I won't tag you in these on Facebook." So now I'm certain that if you visit www.DumbCostumedWhores.com you'll probably find my head photoshopped onto a naked body. Or several naked bodies, 'cause some of those sites are outta control. Let's just say that I still have a long road ahead of me, loyal readers.

I did not, however, leave with anyone besides Erin, which in-and-of itself puts me light years ahead of the rest of the gyrating crowd. I made her switch shoes with me on the walk home, as I was both too sore from wearing the boots to continue the trek, and too drunk to properly put one foot in front of the other, and not break an ankle in the process. Those boots have like, 4 inch heels. They're dangerous.

We were stopped by a seemingly normal looking man (this was after 3:00am, mind you), who first tried to pick our brains about bars in the area ("No, they're closed, it's 3am and that's last call), then about packies in the area ("No, they're closed, it's 3am"), and then tried to see if we had any beer that we might graciously bestow upon them ("No, it's 3am, and if you touch my beer I'll fucking rip your jugular out.") Always classy, DC. Always classy.

Sunday was spent recuperating, eating giant servings of lasagna and fettuccine alfredo (and chocolate frosted donuts, the awesomely tasty ones that come in those boxes and are about $1.50 at 7-11), watching a Supernatural marathon, and then cheering on the Sox as they steamrolled over the pitiful pussies that are the Rockies.

All-in-all, a fabulous weekend. Even if I did return a Zipcar late and got charged $50, but that's okay: I can put on my pirate costume and work the corner to get the money back. Like I said, always classy.

The Mooning Gooser, and the Hangover from Hell

Days till Halloween: 9

First things first, CONGRATULATIONS are in order! Erin proved that she is indeed the smartest person I have ever met by pulling a 169 ON THE LSAT!!!! Which means she's pretty much blown everyone else we know entirely out of the water with that one. Delicious!

And more CONGRATULATIONS are in order as the RED SOX ARE GOING TO THE WORLD SERIES!!!!! I knew all along that they'd destroy the Indians, they just wanted to make them think they had a fighting chance. It's like a lion playing with its prey; you know, they give them some room to run around, maybe think they're going to actually get out alive, and then surprise! they're in the lion's stomach and oh yeah, they're dead. Go Sox!

Hallelujah!

The rest of this weekend, rather than being a continuation of celebration and accomplishments, was one big alcohol-fueled mistake, beginning with my shockingly brilliant decision to start Friday night out by chugging sangria - knowing full well that I was still sick and alcohol was Not a Wise Course of Action. Erin and I started the night by imagining all the amazing things she could do with her new LSAT score (Harvard! Georgetown! Stanford with their hippies!) while getting ready, which is at least a two hour long process to begin with. Then we made our way over to the Reds' place to start the night off with some wine, where I had a glass of red wine and 3 glasses of sangria.

Drink Tally: 4

As a word of caution, never, ever chug a glass of sangria. Not only does it burn your throat, but it instantly pushes you into Sloppy Drunk, a category that no one in their right minds should ever start the night out in. Believe you me, I'm from a small beach town, I've seen it happen too many times to even count.

Feeling invincible, we made our way to The Big Hunt (not a gay bar as I had previously thought, which was interesting), which The Washington Post describes as:

[The Big Hunt] may be the only bar in the world in which the walls of one room are molded like safari tents. But the real big game in this smoky Dupont Circle bar are eligible men and women in their early twenties. The Big Hunt offers them a variety of settings for mutual pursuit.

Yeah, mutual pursuit my ass. The bar was full of unattractive men and oddly shaped women, crammed into every nook and cranny in the place. Not that it's unexpected, as it is DC which means that for every eligible single woman, there are -500 eligible bachelors, but still. Don't build our hopes up, and then destroy them in one cruel blow, Post. In order to ease the pain, we decided to start off with a round of kamikaze shots, and then I ordered a long island iced tea, figuring I could finish off the night with it and end up roaringly drunk. Of course by the time I finished it, I then decided it would be a brilliant idea to have a vodka cranberry, cause hey, the night was young (1:45am is young, right?) and I wanted to keep my wastedness.

Drink Tally: 7

Our drinks finished, we decided to meet Becca's sister and the Reds' roommates at The Lucky Bar, a place further down on Connecticut Ave to dance a little and enjoy the rest of the night. Upon exiting, we were greeted with someone we have affectionately come to refer to as the Mooning Gooser. Why, you ask, would we refer to someone in such a way? Well that's easy, my friends! It's because this lovely man was weaving his drunken way around the outside of the bar, and introduced himself to us by flipping Kristyn's pony tail around and declaring that we were "cra-zay!" and then promptly sticking his butt in my face and mooning us. If that's not the way right to a woman's heart, I just don't know what is.

Actually, I do know the real way to a woman's heart, and that is in her ass. The Mooner followed us, and proceeded to happily goose Erin - and yes, by "goose" I am referring to "grabbing her ass and pinching merrily." I'm not entirely sure what prompts men to do such ridiculously stupid things, but it was one of those times where everyone just sort of stops and stares. And then Becca and I proceeded to hurl drunken insults at him, until her sister had to tell us to stop screaming because people were starting to stare.

Getting lucky tonight (via goosing)

Since that was clearly a traumatic incident, I knew my only option was to continue drinking! I had a SoCo and lime shot, then a vodka cranberry, and then oh yeah, yet another vodka cranberry.

Drink Tally: 10

For those of you that know me, my normal tolerance level (while healthy) is about 3 drinks. Add in the flu, and I'm drunk just smelling alcohol. I don't entirely remember finishing my last drink, and while I have some vague recollection of stumbling around in the bathroom and talking about shoes with some girl in there (or was I in the men's room?) I don't really remember much else...

...Other than the fact that Erin's fabulous LSAT score meant she was a magnet for all kinds of classy men, and while a guy that followed us home (dude, hailing a cab for us does not mean you then proceed to get in with us) was not a gooser, he was a gigantic pain in the ass. Why? I have no idea. But I clearly remember yelling something at him and being very cranky that he was with us. He followed us into Erin's apartment, but luckily I had to get my keys and made them walk me to my apartment... where I promptly told the follower that Erin had to come upstairs with me and would be right back, and then let her fall asleep on my air mattress while the crazy man wandered around outside my building. We don't actually know how long he was down there for, but I do know he was gone at 8am when Erin left!

I know men like to say we lead them on, but a "get the fuck out of here" should penetrate some skulls and let guys know we're not actually interested. If all else fails, then being left alone in the cold for hours should probably do the trick. I was half convinced he'd still be outside and kidnap Erin when she left, but I was too busy trying to keep my head from spinning that I didn't have the motor skills required to warn her.

An actual picture of me from the morning after

I spent the next 9 or so hours screaming at the toilet bowl and cursing my inability to vomit (since I know you really wanted to know that), in between fitful naps, pounding headaches, and a general desire to just end it all. When I finally crawled out of bed at 5:30pm, I was in the terrible throes of Still Vaguely Drunk But Also Hideously Hungover. I couldn't actually walk straight, yet I met Erin and we trekked like 10 blocks to the Reds' place, so that I could stuff my face with stuffed shells and Kristyn's magical sauce, as I'd only eaten 4 saltines in the past 36 or so hours.

I was hung over until close to 2am, and I only say "until" because that was when I went to bed, and I was still very much delirious, and my head was still convinced it was on a Tilt-a-Whirl. When I woke up the next morning, I decided I'm never, ever going to drink again.

That is, until NIGHTMARE ON M STREET BAR CRAWL THIS SATURDAY! Yeah! Let's get wasted! I can totally handle like, 15 drinks! I am so brilliant!

This should be an interesting couple of days.