Part Irish

(I just checked my Sitemeter numbers for the last week and it looks something like 0-0-0-0-0-7-30...and it's still early in the day, I figured I would temporarily return from retirement just so y'all could get my version of how I met Irish.)

The world is small. Seriously.

Last summer I read blogs ferociously, constantly hitting refresh buttons to get my fix from boredom and a window into the lives of others as I worked from home. One blog I stumbled upon entertained me quite a bit, written by, well, an Irish and a Jew. They clearly enjoy the sauce as much as I do, and most of Irish's blog posts are about her getting drunk, much like many of my blog posts.

But that was it. It was blog world. Not real life. They were mythical stories from mythical people from a far away land. While I always wondered who was behind the keyboard -- as I do with most bloggers -- I figured I would never meet them.

Until....

Gold Cup, for those of you who don't know, is a horse race that takes place twice a year about an hour outside of DC. As you can imagine, it is filled with secret-handshake motherfuckers and douches doused in seersucker. However, The Counselor told me he had these tickets that guaranteed an open bar all day, plentiful women in sundresses and .... well, that was really all the manipulation necessary. What can I say? I'm easy like Sunday morning, bitches.

Our day starts off at the bar where we were supposed to catch the bus out to the middle of nowhere. The first thing I do is go to the bathroom where I hear some guy puking his lungs out. Yes, it's going to be one of those days.

The Counselor and I sit down about 9:30. It was exactly then I texted my sister and told her I was drinking my first beverage of the day. About 20 minutes later, I was on my fifth drink.

The Counselor tells me to slow down. I tell him I am a fucking professional at all-day drinking fests and that he should focus more on drinking his vodka than on being my alcohol governor.

I am already feeling quite buzzed, and it's not even 10 a.m. The Counselor informs me that he is pretty sure I will pass out in a plateful of potato salad sometime early afternoon.

The bar sold these bottles -- growlers. They were 64 oz. filled with any beer you wanted. I, naturally, grab one and fill it up for the bus ride. Some couple on the bus seems to have all the answers to every question, and I tell them that while they may know everything, I know the meaning of life. They ask. I hold up my big-ass barrel of beer and guarantee that the answer is at the bottom, and take a huge swig.

The Counselor and I step off the bus, wander over to the tents set up, and start the drinking. We are determined to consume enough alcohol to offset the cost of our tickets.

Yea, so, we won that battle.

Fast forward about four hours and countless beers and bourbons later. I go out wandering, stumble back to the tent and am immediately grabbed by three women. One of them has red hair.

RedHead: "So, I hear your dad works in New York?!"
Me: [blank stare] Trying to wrap my head around what is going on...."Uh, yea...how the hell did you know that?"
RedHead: "Your buddy told us."
Me: "Oh."

So, yea. They tell me where they went to school. I tell them I have a friend who went to this other school in upstate New York, a name of which I can barely pronounce but they seem to know. RedHead tells me about some project form her school. I told her my dad probably built it. She asks me to call my dad. I oblige. He did, in fact, build it. Laughter, courtesy talk....blah blah blah. We part ways.

No big deal. The Counselor and I go on to enjoy the rest of the evening and I pass out by midnight. (I will refrain from telling you about how I grew to be slightly obnoxious: I told one woman to put her tits back in her dress because they were gross, I told another woman -- who The Counselor knows -- that she is fucking obnoxious and rude, and I .... well, enough. BUT, I didn't pass out in the potato salad.)

Then, randomly, I am scrolling through my blog roll earlier this week and start reading Irish and Jew. Sure enough, Irish was at Gold Cup this weekend and....yea. I ask her if we met? She asks if she made me call my dad.....yea. She's the RedHead.

ISN'T THAT FUCKING CRAZY?

I mean....seriously?

After I figured it out yesterday, I was hanging out at The Counselor's house and I asked him:

Me: "Dude, do you remember telling these women where my father works?"
The Counselor: "Ummmm....yea. Why? What did I do wrong?"
Me: "Nothing....kinda of a funny story, actually...."

Yea. Crazy.

So, now I know what Irish looks like. I'll say this: She ain't fucking lying. She looks Irish. Like, very.

And, if she ever runs into me again and asks me to call my dad, I'll buy her a Car Bomb.

Small fucking world.

It's about that time...

During the past few months you have allowed me to share some of my stories with you about some of the odd and sometimes hilarious events in my life. While readership didn't exactly soar, I appreciate and delighted in every one of your comments, and I can't thank you enough for taking time from you day to stop in, to read, to take interest and to come back for more.

But it's about that time to shutter the windows, lock the doors, and close it all down.

Honestly, when I started this blog in early August I had no idea how long it would last. Maybe a few posts, maybe one a day, maybe just one. I surprised myself often, particularly in November, with what I was able to conjure up from my past and my present to share with you.

During the past weeks and months, there has been a brief but full evaluation of where I am, who I am and where I want to go. And while sharing stories of drunken antics, random life events and occasional instances of incontinence is always fun in the moment, it clearly doesn't define me as a person, and I started to worry that my blog was defining me, rather then the way it should be.

Also, these posts -- haphazard at best, illegible at worst -- take their toll on my writing, which is a skill I often take pride in. In reviewing some of my earlier work and even some of my later posts, I decided that my talents were indeed slipping, simply for the same reason any athlete sees an erosion of his talent: I wasn't challenged.

So, that's all. Maybe not forever, but maybe.

Thanks to you all.

All my best.

-Scott

Oh, uhh, hey there

I didn't quite realize it had been almost two full weeks since the last time I posted. I was actually considering doing that whole Blog 365 thing where I post every day. Good thing I didn't do that.

I just back from Atlantic City.

Wow. I am fucking destroyed.

There is no way I can continue drinking like I only have a few months to live, or I'll only have a few more months to live. Going to bed at 6:30 in the morning after dropping hundreds at the Blackjack table with a beer-pickled liver may sound fun in only a few cultures, and God bless us all for living in one.

Also. Strip Clubs. I like them.

So what's going on with you guys?

I am happy. I love life.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

BLUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Hellz yes, bitches.

I love it.

I love it.

I love it.

I love it.

Suck my fat balls, SEC fans. All of you. ALL of you.

Be it resolved...

Someone asked me last night what my New Year's resolutions would be.

The quick answer: none.

I don't know why but I have never grafted on to the whole "change" thing.

Sure, I could resolve to quit smoking like I'm on death row, to quit drinking to the point of blacking out -- particularly around family members -- to quit associating myself with vapid women of loose morals, to focus more on the happiness of others, to dedicate myself to a better cause, a righteous path, to concentrate on making others around me happy and offering them the best qualities I was born with, to become more selfless and less selfish, to stop blowing money on vice and invest in my future, to rededicate myself to treating my body like a temple and start exercising regularly, to remove trans fat from my diet, to stop swearing like a dockworker with Turretts syndrome, to floss everyday and make it twice to the dentist for my six-month checkup, and to spend my free nights reading great works of literature and compelling biographies about key historical figures.

......Nope. I'm good.

Happy New Year, Bitches!

It's Friday, Bitches -- Open Thread 12/28

Yea.

Drunk.

Help me.

What are you doing RIGHT NOW?

ARE YOU DRUNK?

TELL ME, BITCHES.

Miss ytou.

C'mon you fucking lurkers, I know who you are. Leave me some love.

DO IT.

Love you.....

S

It's Friday, Bitches -- Open Thread 12/21

Yes, let me apologize for the lackluster performance with posts this week. I really only started feeling better on Wednesday night. And I can't seem to write when I am sick...or healthy, for that matter.

Tomorrow I am leaving for Florida for a week, which means Dignity Lost will be on hiatus for a little while so I can spend time with my beloved extended family in a warm climate. Beer, sand and Santa Claus. God Bless America.

(Just as a point of reference, the last time the extended family -- mom's side -- got together for Christmas my sister snapped that picture of me on my blog. I'll tell that story another time, but basically I am passed out at a restaurant. What you don't see in that picture, because I cropped it, is my arm draped around my mother, who is smiling. How proud she was of me that night I'm sure.)

Let's look past Christmas though, since I may not have the chance to post next week. What are you planning for New Year's Eve?

Not gonna lie, it's never been one of my favorite holidays. Although last year was probably the best, seeing as how it involved a prostitute disguised as a stripper, an inflatable doll, a birthday and more booze than you could ever hope of dream of. Always a recipe for fun. (And no, I didn't, you dirty fucks. I get my women the old fashioned way, I earn them.)

OK, so tell me what your plans are for New Year's.

And, if I don't have a chance to tell you before next week, Happy Kwanzaa, bitches!