Ladies and gents, Welcome to Incredible Week! This week will be solely, SOLELY dedicated to all things Incredible. Mr Incredible, that is. There will be a series of guest bloggers until Mr. Incredible reads slash followsfor the week, blogging about all of his favorite things. Goal: Some attention.
Magnolias and Mimosas, that is. I'm pleased to introduce to you Allyson, the genius who is able to make any situation fabulous:
Upon finding out that Mr. Incredible is a sports fan, I resolved to write about how I love sports (and by sports, I mean UK basketball). I decided it was the best opportunity I would have to educate him on the attributes of the University of Kentucky basketball program (See also Kentucky, Heartbeat of and Why It’s a Bad Idea to Leave Your Thong in the Hallway of Wildcat Lodge…Also, please disregard that we just lost our #1 ranked status less than 48 hours after receiving it.) But Salt did such a staggering job of charming us with tales of fandom gone wrong…that I really just felt like I couldn’t compete. So, I’m switching to Mr. Incredible’s 3rd Great Love (after Kiera and sports, of course…and yes, in that order, I’m sure)…beer. I know a little something about beer. And what it does to a jellyfish sting, attractiveness to the opposite sex, and your unscathed arrest record. So, grab a seat and a Pabst, boys and girls. It’s story time.
Beer has gotten me into all sorts of uncomfortable situations. It’s convinced me that as long as you keep it all in the same fraternity, then it really is OK. And it allowed me to believe that, even though I was, basically, kicked out of gymnastics at the Y, I really can do a keg stand. Above all, it has granted me invincibility. All I’m lacking is a cape…and the ability to fly, as it turns out. So it was with this air of untouchable…um…ness…that I left the party and headed home. Now, let me stop here and say that I do not condone drinking and driving. It is by far the stupidest thing I’ve ever done…much stupider than failing Nutrition 101 TWICE…and showing up at my sister’s wedding (as the maid-of-honor, of course) with a gash on my chin from playing leap frog in front of a strip club…and wearing a skirt on my 21st birthday. Stupider than all of those combined. Having said that, this is funny for me now. I’ll tell my mother on her death bed.
So, I left the party and headed home, down a major 4-lane road that basically forms a big circle around the city. I was doing just fine (even if I was doing 10 miles under the speed limit) when I noticed a city police officer in my rear view mirror. Awesome. If I was pulled over, it would be like that commercial where the guy opens his door and the 170 gallons of beer pours out. In all of my foamy logic, I decided to take the next exit ramp off the highway…y’know…just to get away. I turned off…and so did he. Oh dear Lord, please do not let me get a DUI tonight. Please, please, please. So I made a right at the end of the ramp (because, when in doubt, just make all rights). And so did he. At this point, my heart is pounding straight out of my chest and ricocheting off the windshield, my palms are sliding with sweat, and I’m sober. I mean S-O-B-E-R…although a breathalyzer would surely argue. So, I took the next right…as did he. I started to count by 2’s, recite the alphabet backwards and try to touch my index fingers together (and anything else my friends had informed me that they do to test sobriety). The alphabet in reverse is a tricky one, but the counting and touching was manageable. At the next turn, I took a left. If he followed, this would seal the deal. I took a left, he took a right. SHEW! Thank you, little baby Jesus. I drove just a bit further until I found myself in a parking space. I breathed and looked around to see where I had landed.
I was parked at the county detention center.
I had driven myself to jail.
Having never been to that particular jail, I was never really sure where it was located…until that night. Apparently, I had made a left (where you pick people up) and he had made a right (where you drop people off). I am convinced that God wanted to teach me a lesson the easy way, as opposed to the hard way. And it worked. Oh sheep balls, it worked.
I still heart beer. I even have a friend who makes and bottles his own, which I wish he would market because it is phenomenal. And it pairs much better with pizza, chicken wings, and Swedish meatballs than anything else. I haven’t given up drinking, but now I travel with a toothbrush because there’s nothing worse than crashing on someone’s couch and waking up, feeling like a brewery has thrown up in your mouth.
Dear Mr. Incredible,
If you don’t follow Kiera by the end of this week, that’s stupider than driving yourself to the jail. Just sayin’….
Honest on my life truth: I thought that she was talking about United Kingdom basketball. That, my friends, is why I need other people to write about sports and beer, and not me.