Fat, Drunk, and Stupid is no way to go through life... Dean Wormer, Faber College

I was just thinking about strange things I had heard about, some undoubtedly myth and legend, so gross, but all fascinating in their own way. I was reading a Blog by Mummified on nurturing that we should have received in our childhoods. She wished we were still receiving some of that attention. There was a lot of talk about sharing and that coupled with Australia made me think of “Pelicans” for some reason. Not the bird, but the process where one dude gulps down a beer, regurgitates it into a glass and another dude drinks it. I understand it is very popular in New Zealand. I have never actually seen anyone “pelicaning”, but I don’t have trouble believing that it does happen.

It seems a lot of the weird and wonderful revolves around drinking, now that I come to think of it. Most snacks in bar had to have started as a drunken dare. Blind Robins, for instance. A Blind Robin is a Little fish that comes vacuum-packed in some sort of fluid for your enjoyment. I have been pretty drunk from time to time, but never drunk enough to try the fishies. I have even given the plump red mystery sausage, also vacuum-packed a pass. I am just not very adventurous. I have had the pickled pigs feet and find those to be very delicious, once you get past the idea.

In the Philippines it was baluts. Basically a partially formed baby duck still in the egg. You break the egg and suck the birdy down. They don’t make enough San Miguel to get me that drunk. I like eggs and I love duck, but I will take my duck fully grown, thank you very much. A lot of other things went on in Philippine bars that decorum prohibits from mentioning here. The one thing I thought was totally uncalled for was Foxy Boxing at the “Third Eye” bar in Angeles city. A friend asked me to go, and I was certainly up for some San Miguel after a hard day of watching tropical storms pass through while sitting at the pool bar. I figured a couple Philippinas in skimpy outfits would get up on stage, put on the gloves, and just jiggle around a bit. That was not to be. The two women were fully clothed and proceeded to beat the living shit out of each other for what amounted to about $5US. That is not entertaining. There was an Aussie soldier (again with the Australian connection) I was talking with and he asked me along on a bar crawl with his mates. I don’t remember much from that night, except one of the soldiers bought a monkey. At least I think it was a monkey. I did manage to make it back to the hotel and remember being amazed that I drank that much beer and didn’t puke.

There were the college days where all sort of shenanigans went on. I was Pioneer Pete for Homecoming once. I had on bib overalls, a flannel shirt, and a huge papier-mâché Pioneer Pete Head. The mouth was large enough I could still drink the bottle of wine I was holding. I was still reeling from the celebration the night before, and was having some problems with gas. Here’s a safety tip, so listen close – if you ever find yourself in bib overalls with your head trapped in an enclosed space never, under any circumstances, should you fart. The physics is simple. The gas travels up the front of the bibs, which act as funnel, channeling the gas into the papier-mâché noggin. There is nowhere for this gas to go, except your nose. I still have nightmares about that episode. I did flip an old woman taking a picture off; fortunately, she thought hat was pretty damn funny. Ever since that random birding, it is rare to see a picture of me where I am not displaying the finger in memory of the event.

I am somewhat saner these days, don’t drink as much – I figure I had my share already. I do indulge in some Yellow Tail Shiraz, which I refer to as Kangaroo Milk, or a Kilt Lifters, but that is rare. I found I could make an ass of myself without any help from alcohol so I will cut my liver a break and waltz my Matilda no more.