Confessions of A Naughty Girl

The Wheels Fell Off the Envoy, But We Pulled Off SoPo With Sass

Apologies to have left you hanging for so long, as I promised a post on Sunday, but seeing as I only probably sobered up in the last three hours (and it's Monday night), there really wasn't much time to commisserate about my weekend. I guess the best way to describe it is that it was more incoherent than Ozzy Osbourne on speed, more scandalous than a whore in church, and more logic-defying than a stripper demanding extra to smack her ass with a wooden spoon.

GREAT weekend, start to finish.

On Friday night, after a pretty emotionally-charged week at work, I went out with Hilla and Erica (my Humps). And due to the very tough aforementioned week, we decided to forgo the slow buzz and just do shots. Round upon round upon round. It was a belligerent girl's paradise - a Willy Wonka world of lemon drops, kamikazes, Jager, and anything else that looked even remotely thirst-quenching at the bar. Mario, Mike, Amy, Cindy, Andrew, and Matt were there, and the only thing I can remember after the shot of Patron is Matt and I in the booth at Neighbors, telling each other how much we loved one another (after resolving a small tiff from earlier that day) and hugging and kissing. Friendly hugging and kissing, honest. No tongue. That's yucky.

After seven or eight shots, it wasn't enough to stay at Neighbors. Oh no, we had to go elsewhere. We had to go...dancing. At the same Save the Last Dance underground dive that my friend Amy G. introduced me to my first weekend here. The one where the gold tooth guy I danced with was paged on his beeper and had to leave me to dance to "Rhythm Nation" all by myself? Yeah. An embarrassing testament to how drunk I was at this point:

Five minutes into being on the dance floor, Humps looks at me and says, "Do you know that guy?" I responded, "What guy?" She points directly behind me, I turn around, and notice that I've been holding my hands at my sides with some random guy who has been dancing behind me.

I tried to bust out hip hop moves, but couldn't really coordinate well in my state of brilliance, so I settled for the white girl's overbite and prayed I didn't look as stupid as I felt.

Hilla drove me home. I do not remember much about it. I called Humps. I do not remember much about it. Apparently I lied to Humps and told her I was eating a sandwich. I never ate a sandwich. I called Matt. I do not remember anything about it. Apparently I told Matt that he was fabulous. I must have been channeling Carrie Bradshaw, seeing as I never use the word "fabulous" other than in posts.

Saturday morning arrived and I woke with the relieved feeling of knowing that I had somehow made it to bed and passed out. I went to the spa with my sister for a facial, and emerged nice and dewy. From there, I headed to meet Humps for Day #2 of ridiculous drinking at the Decatur Beer Festival. Five minutes into the festival, we lost the three other girls we came with. Ten minutes into the festival, JP showed up. I love JP.


Hour #11 of drinking documented: our first beer. Um, in Decatur.

Thirty minutes into the festival, we had a nice buzz going, we met up with some faces from my past that were in town visiting.


Hour #14 of drinking documented: Decatur Beer Festival 2005


An hour into the festival, Humpy left (temporarily, to head to a wedding) and my feet started to hurt. Two hours into the festival, I didn't know I had feet.

We left the beer festival and headed to one of the guys' houses to play some poker and drink more, because obviously we hadn't had enough to drink. Once there, I played about 16 shitty hands and lost $20. It was about this time that my sassy little bitch Erica returned from her wedding and we started - well, continued - the drinking festivities.


Chuck is the most entertaining drunken bum I have ever known. And I say that with true affection. Please visit his website. It's super.


Hour #24 of drinking documented in a shot with our gracious host.

A few hours of this, and the wheels really fell off of the Envoy that was taking us from destination to destination. We all hopped in the Envoy and it took us, as if on auto-pilot, to the Clermont Lounge, where strippers go to die. Someone had brought along a wooden mixing spoon from the kitchen, but I don't know how it got there, or why we had it.

After a couple of lap dances from a 59 year-old stripper who knew nothing other than how to slap her own ass and pull down her shirt to show off a set of twins that haven't seen Perk since Nixon was in office, one of the guys decided to pull out that trusty wooden spoon and give her a little love tap.

Let me tell you - if there's one thing I learned from this weekend, it's this: Never smack a stripper with a wooden spoon without her permission. Strippers do not like this. I believe her exact words were, "What are you doing? You have to pay extra for that." Ahhh....I get it now. It's not degrading enough to be a stripper at age 59 who moves like Patrick Swayze on Quaaludes. It's not enough to provide fodder for for the masses to laugh at when they're wasted, either. But it is enough to have the audacity to demand that people will pay extra to smack your ass with a wooden spoon? I guess she has standards, though that's damning her with faint praise. Yeah, good logic. I get it. I really do.

The Clermont lost its novelty after a couple of hours, so we headed to the greatest place on Earth: Happy Karaoke. I don't know how we got there, or who knew about this place, but somewhere along Buford Highway is a hidden Korean karaoke gem. The place is insane - they rent out karaoke rooms by the hour, and you can sit in a room, drink beer, eat the sliced up watermelon and cantaloupe they give you as snacks, and make a complete ass out of yourself. If Heaven exists, and if by some lucky mistake I end up there, Heaven will definitely have a Happy Karaoke. In fact, I think I've just decided that Happy Karaoke will be the site of my 25th birthday party this December. And if Chuck would be willing to fly back to Atlanta again and rev up the crowd with another rousing rendition of "I Believe I Can Fly", I will seriously give him an all-expenses paid weekend here.

We finally got back around...um, not sure what time.

Yesterday, after much hungover lethargy, Humps and I went out for a cheeseburger yesterday afternoon, and then sat on my couch and watched "Muriel's Wedding" and about 10 back-to-back episodes of "Laguna Beach: The After Show" on demand.

I am exhausted, but quite satisfied. I guess the best way I can summarize is to ask what happens when you combine 36 hours of drinking with some terrible hip hop dancing, a beer festival, strippers, and karaoke? SoPo. That's what you get. And if you don't know what that means, don't worry about it. It's probably illegal in 48 out of the 50 states. (That was one for you, Humps.)

posted by KA @ 12:54 AM