On Saturday, I attended the Bend Brewfest. It’s a three-day event featuring more than 80 fine beers from craft breweries across the region.
In other words, a great place to get sloshed.
Not that this was my goal. While it’s true I enjoyed my share of delectable adult beverages, I always find it more entertaining to watch other people get hammered.
I hadn’t been there more than twenty minutes when I found myself ravenously hungry. I wandered over to the food court and selected a tasty gourmet sausage made with curry and lemongrass. They served it to me on a stick, so I carried my treat back to the common area to search for my friends.
Within seconds, a strange man in a stained blue t-shirt staggered up with a glazed expression and a mug he struggled to hold upright.
“You know you’re driving every guy here totally crazy,” he slurred.
I looked behind him to see if there was an angry mob forming. I didn’t see one, nor could I recall having done anything to impact the gentleman’s sanity.
I looked back at him. “Come again?”
He closed his eyes and groaned. “Yeah.”
He opened his eyes and nodded at my snack. “You with that sausage. You’re so f**king hot.”
It finally occurred to me what he was getting at, and I tried to discretely wipe sausage juice off my hand to avoid additional comment.
“Sure,” I said as I backed away. “I’m sure it’s especially hot the way I just bit the end off and chewed it into a million little pieces.”
He laughed like that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Then he fell over in the grass.
I continued on with my evening, consuming a whole lot of good food and beer and watching as everyone began looking a lot more glassy-eyed. I excused myself at one point to visit the porta-potties. After making use of the facilities, I emerged to discover the hand-washing station had run out of water and paper towels.
Naturally, I didn’t discover this until after I’d soaped up my hands.
A guy beside me made the same discovery, and looked at me with a tipsy grin. He held up his hands for my inspection. “Can I dry them on your shirt?”
“No thanks,” I replied as I focused on pumping a few meager tablespoons of water from the portable sink.
Undeterred, the guy grinned wider. “You want to dry your hands on my pants?”
And just in case I hadn’t understood the offer, he thrust his pelvis at me.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, backing away. “How about you wipe your hands on your own pants?”
He looked down, probably assessing whether that was an acceptable substitution. “Hey, my fly’s down.”
“Yes, it is,” I agreed. “I hear that’s what all the ladies find charming.”
I wandered away and returned to my evening of excellent beer and food. Still, none of it impressed me quite as much as the creativity of those alcohol-saturated Romeos. Though I doubt either gentleman remembers his romantic gesture, they can rest assured I do.
What’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard a drunk person say? For that matter, has someone ever informed you of some pearl of wisdom you’ve offered up after a few too many? Please share.
I’ll be over here deciding whether my dinner sausage would be best accompanied by Pumpkin Ale or Pineapple Wheat Beer.