After finishing our strenuous day of napping, Matt and I decided we needed to get ready for our Saturday night plans. For some reason, we manage to have amazingly awesome friends. I have no idea how this happens, but somehow it does.

We try not to understand it, but just go with it instead. It’s one of the world’s greatest unsolvable mysteries, like how Stonehenge was created, or how the Kardashians remain famous.

No matter the reason, we count our blessings that we have such amazing friends, and go to whatever events they invite us to. This past Saturday, we were invited to a large party at some friends’ house. They have a group that goes to fish frys every Friday night during Lent and eats and drinks heavily during that time (and in between that time…and before that time…and after that time…)

They call themselves The Tilapia Mafia and they are awesome.  They even have t-shirts and sweatshirts for those lucky enough to become “made” into the group.  Since Lent recently ended, our friends threw a Tilapia Mafia Last Supper at their house.

It was complete with a large fish fry, several kegs of good beer and tons of food. Since our friends are classy, there was also flippy cup games and beer pong. I know, classy, right?

We pulled up to the party and I gave the pep talk I give my husband before every fun event we somehow get invited to. It goes something like this: “Don’t fuck this up. Seriously. We don’t want these people to realize we aren’t cool, and if they do, I’m blaming it on you. So put your game face on and don’t be a bitch about it.”

Inspiring huh?

scoldWe headed inside and were greeted by the smell of alcohol and fried food…two of my favorite things.  The food spread was amazing and laid out in the kitchen, where we immediately went to stuff our faces.  No walk around the house to say hello to people, no chit chat about the weather.  (It rained that day.  What’s there to discuss?)

We figured we would cut to the chase and immediately begin gorging ourselves on dinner. After all, we didn’t want to be rude to our hosts and not eat.  Since one of the hosts was a chef, we figured it would be a slap in the face to her if we didn’t gobble up everything she set out to eat.  We’re considerate friends that way.

After eating a plateful of food (or two plates full…don’t judge), we decided to walk around and mingle a bit.  We filled our drinks and headed to the back yard to chat and pretend as if we weren’t both wondering when the dessert would be revealed.

We started chatting with a woman on the deck who was drinking beer and chatting about the “good ole days” of getting drunk in college.  I loved her immediately.  After chatting about our favorite fast food restaurants to crash at 2:00 a.m. (Del Taco and Jack in the Box).

I asked her what she did for a living.  She looked at me dead serious and said “I’m a microbiologist.”

Um, what?!  Who says that?  I kind of chuckled and made some comment about how I was the inventor of the push up bra,  and then I realized she was serious.  She was actually a microbiologist.  Frickety frick!  I knew that profession existed but I didn’t know anyone who actually did such a thing.  It was like meeting a Muppet!

I feel like a microbiologist is one of those professions kids say they want to be when they grow up, but don’t really know what it is or that it requires studying and a coke habit to get through school.  No wait…that’s a lawyer.  (Who would fathom being such a ridiculous profession as a lawyer anyway?)

I couldn’t believe I was talking to a real microbiologist, and I commented something to that effect.  I looked to the people standing around and asked what the chances were of actually meeting a microbiologist at a party.

Two of the others standing in the group chimed in and said they were also microbiologists.  What?!   This was getting freaky.  I immediately scanned the room for other professionals I didn’t think existed, like astronauts, or honest politicians.  None of those were found.

I slithered away from the conversation with the microbiologists, as I didn’t want to put myself in a situation to look even dumber than I already did.  Who knew I would be surrounded by people who had what I believed to be fictional jobs?


I walked around and located my husband.  He was at the flippy cup table trying to explain to the German national how to play.  My husband was several beers in and at that point couldn’t tell you what brand of beer he was drinking, let alone how to play a drinking game.

The fact the guy he was speaking to was from Germany and spoke broken English didn’t help.  It was like watching Paris Hilton try to understand anything at all.  Seriously.

After my drunk husband proceeded to stumble (literally) through the explanation, the German (not his real name), gave the flippy cup game a try.  After a few rounds of trying, and my husband yelling profanity in the German’s ear in an effort to motivate him, the German became frustrated and yelled in a thick German accent “I’ve never been flipping these cups before!

At first I thought there was going to be a smack down between my husband and the German, but it appeared as if my drunk husband had a bond with the German and they were determined to make it work.

They practiced a little longer and then got a group together to play flippy cup…the way that all young professional people in their 30s do at a party inspired by religious events.

beer steinAfter several rounds of flippy cup, and what I can only assume were curse words from the German, my husband retreated from flippy cup defeated…and drunk.  My husband doesn’t get drunk very often, but when he does, it’s a sight to see.  Everyone else loves Drunk Matt, except for Sober Lisa.

Sober Lisa isn’t so much a fan, as she has to watch him all night to make sure he doesn’t pee on something he’s not supposed to, or punch someone in the face.  It’s like babysitting a 5 year old, only most five year-olds don’t randomly yell profanity and dry hump anything that moves.

As the night wore on, the drinks continued to flow for my husband, and I knew it was time to go when he kept randomly yelling “Damn it German!” whenever the German entered the room.  I gathered my drunk hubby and said goodbye to everyone.

We headed to the front of the house to gather our things from the living room.  We walked into the room and discovered a drunk man sitting on the couch staring at the wall.

When we entered the room he immediately said “Damn it!” quite loud.  I looked around for the German, as I figured my husband’s trend of offensive yelling had caught on, but I didn’t see him.  I asked the stranger if everything was okay, and he said it wasn’t.

He said he had farted and did so in the living room because no one was there, and that we messed up his perfect farting spot by entering when we did.  He seemed legitimately pissed about it.

We apologized and advised we would hold our noses and retreat immediately without telling anyone about his secret spot (as if the permeating smell of rotting pumpkin mixed with Stetson and Jim Beam wouldn’t alert others to his farting locale).  I grabbed my husband and headed to the car, doing my best to convince him to stop yelling “Heil the German” as we walked down the city street.

Fortunately we made it to our car safely, which was a bit of a miracle considering most people would probably take my husband’s yelling offensive instead of endearing comments about his new friend.  I like to think criminals were deterred from approaching us because my blabbering husband appeared crazy…but it also could be because we probably totally reeked of crazy guy’s farts.

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