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You may or may not recall the column I wrote a few months ago concerning summer activities. Oh you don’t? Well that’s not entirely surprising. None of us are remembering much of anything these days. Of course, the nights you can’t remember are the ones you’ll never forget. Too sappy? Fuck you. Anyway, for those of you who don’t know what day/month/year it is, summer is past its halfway point. Memorial Day and the 4th of July have come and gone and left us with scars, STD scares (turned out to be saltwater chaffage), and vague recollections of chasing geese with a golf club. At this point, it’s time to take stock of what we’ve done this summer, evaluate our performance and adjust the game plan for the second half. Think of your summer like a surprise shark attack. Or the song Free Bird. Or that sneaky “I might throw up, but I’m not sure” feeling. It might have started out slow, but it gets intense toward the end; and when it’s over, everyone’s covered in puke and blood while a guitar solo is blaring in the background.
We all have excuses to not drink to excess during the semester. Studying, intramurals, serious girlfriends…ok, who am I kidding? But even still, summer is a different animal. It’s the kind of animal that you have to sign a fucking liability waiver before you can hunt it. Not only are there no excuses for sobriety, there’s no room for casual alcohol consumption either. From May — August, wine with dinner and a few beers with your friends does not constitute a night…it’s a pregame. When considering your efforts in the previous months, just mull over how many times you’ve stumbled in during one of your parents’ dinner parties and yelled “fuck you” to the family golden retriever. If your list has the same number of checks as the Democrat side of my ballot, then you’re not doing well. As a solution, shotgun a beer now or I will force feed MSNBC down your throat until you vomit Rachel Maddow’s boy-hair.
In spite of what TFM posers may say, when it’s summertime, your standards tend to go down. I’ll be honest; I’ve bagged a few 7’s. Ok fine, maybe a six or two. Quit critiquing my math. Since we’ve already established that you won’t remember much, it’s acceptable to wake up in the cow pasture every now and then. As a good friend of mine always says, “It’s fine. Just chalk it up to poor personal choices.”Also, you can always make up for it by scoring with a leggy blonde. Hope Solo’s pretty popular these days. Plus if you get one of her teammates to join the two of you, I think it counts as an “own goal.”
If you’ve stayed in one town all summer, you are wrong. New Orleans is always a great spot. Bourbon Street isn’t an “only during Mardi Gras” party place. It’s a year-long rager. Only problem is, it feels like you’re walking through a haze of hot queef this time of year. Ballpark trips, are always great, if a little cliché. It’s like the Hangover II. Yeah, it was ok, but did he really have to be in the fucking elevator? Show some more creativity, guys. The mountains are the place to go if the heat’s starting to get to you. Feel free to make your way over to Telluride. If you time it right, you may even see me. Just make sure not to stay in Colorado too long. The locals are weirder than Germans, and the Germans were responsible for Human Centipede.
Treat the rest of the break like pledging. It’s been great so far, and you’ve kicked some ass. But Hell Week is coming up, and you’re gonna need to get on another level if you really want to mind-fuck this summer into a rage-coma. Just take everything you’re already doing, and square it. In order to finish strong, you need to rage exponentially harder. Take some risks. I’m not advocating the use of drugs…but you should definitely drop acid and go see Captain America. It’s hallucinogenic patriotism, which is a great philosophy/possible band name. For those of you in internships, quit pretending like your bosses are scared of you. They aren’t. And they will absolutely fire your ass if you show up to work obviously intoxicated, which is why it’s absolutely imperative that you do it anyway. No risk, no reward. Make your goal for the second half of the summer to be Roger “The Rocket” Clemens. Just double down on the bullshit and pull a mistrial out of your ass.
And since I know you all want another Hope Solo picture for the road:
It gets cold on the soccer field sometimes.