Operation Party
HotPocket was young, hammered, and had three missions to accomplish: get drunk in an interesting way, find a random party and be the life of it, and go skinny dipping. This was Operation Party. He decided, naturally, to start at number one. His life experience told him that in completing the first step of the plan not only was it possible to socialize beyond his God-given abilities, but also to time travel to his bedroom floor the following morning if things got out of hand.
Sometimes while time traveling he lost his pants.
He hadn’t worked out all the kinks.
Now, a screwdriver is not only a very useful tool and murder weapon but also a delicious drink that happens to contain vodka. A nalgene is an unbreakable water bottle that is used to disguise drinks and comes in colors like “Drink-Disguising Green” and “No-this-isn’t-alcohol Yellow.” There was a shopping center a few blocks away from HotPocket’s house where tons of people went to eat, shop, and steal courtesy umbrellas. This would be the Operation’s starting point.
HotPocket and his friend AssMaster decided to combine the aforementioned three missions into one fantastic night of fun with this highly-sophisticated theorem: “If one was to fill a nalgene with one’s desired combination of orange juice and vodka and journey with a close friend to unforeseen destinations, one’s fun releasing endorphins would start humping like rabbits.” They may have plagiarized it from Freud’s early work.
The shopping center was packed. How it was so busy at 7pm on a bland Thursday evening they didn’t know, but it gave them the opportunity to have very interesting conversations with very uninteresting people. For example:
Girl: “Hi, what’re you two up to?”
AssMaster: “Siphoning oil to drown baby seals.”
Girl: Gasp!
HotPocket: “He’s just kidding, relax. How would we get to the baby seals? There up in fucking Alaska; puppies are so much more convenient.” The girl leaves.
AssMaster: “We’ll call before the show begins!”
Or…
AssMaster: “How are we doing ladies?”
Them: “Good (good); and you?”
HotPocket: “Great, we’re trying to find attractive extras to appear in HBO’s Entourage.”
Them: “Really?!”
HotPocket: “No, but we do have a nalgene full of Grey Goose and would love for you to aid us in our mission to party.”
The girls smiled.
This is how they got to know “April” and “June.”
The four of them set off in the direction HotPocket thought “has a party-like scent.”
After about a mile of sidewalk, June’s phone rang.
“Of course; we’d love to!” June said into the phone. She looked over at HotPocket and AssMaster. “Is it cool if I bring two guys?”
HotPocket and AssMaster waited with wide eyes like hopeful puppies that had drunk too much. Never seen one? You’re missing out.
“You guys wanna party, right?” June asked them.
“Nah, its half-off curling at the retirement home tonight.”
“I really need to re-alphabetize my Xbox games.”
June covered the phone with her hand and spoke softly.
“If by curling you mean keg stands and Xbox games you mean hot-tubbing then we’re good to go, now aren’t we?”
She was good.
“Show us the way, ladies!”
The house party was right on the water. This was perfect for pissing and even more perfect for when boats floated by and waved at them while they held their cocks in one hand and waved politely with the other. They may have been drunk, but they knew their manners.
HotPocket walked into the party expecting to be surrounded by strangers and have to joke his way to a free keg cup. Nope.
“HotPocket! AssMaster! What’s up boys!?” It was Cheek, one of their drinking buddies. “The fuck are you guys doing here?”
“June and April invited us,” AssMaster answered.
“Left the house on a mission to party,” HotPocket said.
“Well mission accomplished! Come get a cup, I know the guy.”
After a few trips to the keg HotPocket found himself sitting around a giant psychedelic table in a club-like basement playing a drinking game he didn’t recognize. This was odd because his friend, Alex Bash, literally wrote The Book
Since HotPocket was trying to avoid waking up with no arm hair, he decided to bid farewell to Impending Cirrhosis and track down AssMaster. He found a group of his friends standing around a recently-floated keg.
“Where’s AssMaster?” HotPocket asked.
“Dunno – I think he went somewhere with one of those girls you guys brought,” NumberTwo told him. “Beer bong?”
Oh Jesus...
After what seemed like the world’s fastest three beer bongs, HotPocket needed to piss. He wandered down near the water for a change of scenery. There was a dock stretching a hundred or so feet into the water, lined with moored boats. HotPocket was about to unzip his pants and write his name in the sand when he noticed three people talking halfway down the dock.
“What were you doing in there?” asked a gruff, aged voice.
“It’s my grandpa’s boat, I was showing it to her,” said a voice HotPocket recognized as AssMaster.
“The hell you showin’ it to her so late at night for?” the gruff voice asked.
AssMaster launched into an obviously fake story about working late and traffic and his uncle’s investment bank and all other kinds of bullshit. AssMaster’s grandpa didn’t own a boat. AssMaster’s grandpa lived in Pasadena, hundreds of miles away. The girl he was with said nothing. HotPocket put his pee on hold and started towards them. He was unsure of what to do but had always been good at lying his way out of tight spots.
HotPocket was about to step onto the dock when lights began flashing behind him. Blue and red lights; and it was no where near Christmas.
A cop car pulled up no more than twenty feet behind him. HotPocket ducked behind a tree. He knew they weren’t after him, but being twenty years old and drunk in the U.S. isn’t exactly what some lawyers would call “legal.” He watched from his tree post as two officers made their way to the dock.
“Kid says it’s his Grandpa’s boat,” the older man told the police.
“Well, give him a chance, let’s call his grandpa,” one officer said. AssMaster was screwed. Who would he call? How would whoever he called know what to say?
HotPocket’s phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi grandpa…it’s your grandson.”
HotPocket darted back towards the house. AssMaster’s plan would be ruined if the cops heard his “grandpa” talking behind them.
“Um, uh, hello there sonny-boy; little late to be callin’ the gramps, ain’t it?”
“Well, grandpa,” AssMaster said, almost laughing and ruining it, “I was just showing a fine young lady your boat when dock security busted me, as if he didn’t believe it was your boat, you know, the blue and white one named Lilly ?”
“Ho ho ho! That sure is a funny old dock security man!” HotPocket said in his best stereotypical grandpa voice. “Tell him I worked forty years hard labor to afford that there old boat of mine and I’ll be damned if my grandson can’t get his jollies off in it.”
That last past just kind of slipped out.
The security guard heard HotPocket through AssMaster’s phone and began to apologize for the trouble. He obviously didn’t know what ‘jollies’ were. The officers were happy to be able to do some real work, walked back past HotPocket, and drove away.
The cops were satisfied, but HotPocket was only warming up.
“And tell that security douche bag I’ll kick him in the nuts if he ever talks to my son like that again!”
HotPocket would love to have seen the look AssMaster’s face. The security guard, who had just started walking away, whipped around. Why AssMaster didn’t just hang up, we’ll never know. Drunk people aren’t known for being rational.
“What was that your grandpa just said?” HotPocket heard the dock man ask through the phone. AssMaster was too afraid to answer. HotPocket wasn’t.
“Tell him he’d better get the fuck off your back before you donkey punch him and sell his organs on the black market,” HotPocket said.
He was having fun. Or at least he was until NumberTwo and Cheek joined in. Then he was having lots of fun.
“AssMaster, hi, it’s your grandpa’s gay lover – did you come out yet? We’re holding out on ya kid; can’t stay in that closet forever,” Cheek said. NumberTwo grabbed the phone next.
“We also found your magazines– Pee Guzzlers Are Us? Really? I thought you’d go for something anal.”
It was at this point that the dock man reached for the phone. AssMaster evaded his arm, grabbed his girl by the wrist and ran.
Soon, AssMaster was at least twenty feet in front of the girl HotPocket now recognized as April. Very gentlemanly.
They made their way back to the party which was still raging but had more passed out people and a dying bon fire. AssMaster looked alarmed.
“Oh no, HotPocket,” he began, “we haven’t completed stage three yet!”
“It’s ok; we’ll just get the old dock man to…siphon oil…in April…seals…” HotPocket said, his voice trailing off.
“Huh?” AssMaster asked.
HotPocket had been distracted by a glorious sight.
“HotPocket, you ok? You’re freaking us out,” Cheek said, joining in AssMaster’s confusion.
Maybe it was the weed smoke, maybe it was the enormous amounts of beer and liquor and wine, or maybe HotPocket had taken on AssMaster’s fake grandpa’s dementia, but he had just spotted an object of true beauty: a life-size can of Busch Light drinking a twelve-ounce version of itself.
“Wow…”
BuschLight was dancing with an attractive blonde girl. HotPocket expected nothing less from a giant aluminum can of fun. That was, until HotPocket realized BuschLight wasn’t exactly dancing with her, so to speak, in the sense that dancing requires both people to be dancing. Actually, BlondeGirl was drinking with her friends and BuschLight was just kind of groping her. HotPocket was suddenly very angry at Mr. BuschLight.
“Get away, Devin,” HotPocket heard BlondeGirl say. Who’s Devin? HotPocket thought. She must mean Mr. BuschLight. Without meaning to HotPocket bumped into the groping can. Depth perception can be a bitch.
“The fuck man? Back up!” BuschLight said, speaking through the dot in the ‘i’ in ‘light.’ HotPocket was confused by the anger the inanimate object was projecting. Sure, his costume may have been made out of a stumpy garbage can and cardboard letters, and sure, no one else seemed to be wearing a costume, but nonetheless – it was no reason to be mad.
“Hey, BuschLight – I don’t think she wants to dance,” HotPocket said. He couldn’t really make out what BuschLight said after that but he knew it contained phrases that would make Tony Soprano proud.
Then, BuschLight pushed him.
“Come one Mr. Muscles, what you got?!”
HotPocket turned around to ask Cheek and AssMaster for advice when he was clocked in the head from behind.
The Busch Light can punched me in the back of the head when I wasn’t looking? HotPocket thought. He fucking punched me? When I wasn’t looking!? HotPocket was perplexed as to how anyone could be angry when they were a giant can of beer. HotPocket would be the happiest guy in town, just walking around being all beer-like and jolly, but here was this fake-aluminum jerk punching a complete stranger in the back of the head.
HotPocket had never been one to fight or be involved in violence; he usually just insulted his opponents until they were too embarrassed to speak. But this was different. You don’t grope a girl up and down and then hit a stranger in the back of the head.
HotPocket had some experience with drunken weight-lifting from the three Greek Weeks he had endured. So, pairing this experience with his title of Mr. Muscles, HotPocket grabbed BuschLight by the two indents in the side of his garbage can outfit and lifted him up. Not just like a bear-hug or some wrestling slam, but above his head military press-style. Resting the back of BuschLight’s outfit on the top of his head, HotPocket turned to the water.
Aided by Cheek and AssMaster, he carried BuschLight all the way to the dock. AssMaster pinned the guys legs together, Cheek grabbed one of his arms, and some random guy the other. HotPocket had the bulky body resting on his currently-numb skull. NumberTwo was firing up the crowd. To HotPocket’s delight, a crowd had followed them like they were a naked Brad Pitt shitting cash.
BuschLight’s mouth had fallen away from his speaking hole so his profane threats sounded a little like this:
“Msrrgumphasnurglefuckershintywayergrunmphsadeadfuck!”
Obviously, they were petrified.
The count down was HotPocket’s.
“One…two…three!”
And BuschLight sailed through the air and into the water.
HotPocket hadn’t known what to expect when BuschLight hit, but he couldn’t have conjured up anything better.
The giant can of Busch Light floated.
While the costume was so light it made him float, it was too bulky and restricting for him to swim. He was just like a real can of Busch Light.
As BuschLight started to float away from shore HotPocket might have been worried if the guy hadn’t been such a darn jerk (read: fucking asshole). The crowd behind them was laughing and cheering. Life of the party? Check.
“Oh shit – dock guy!” AssMaster yelled.
Sure enough, the same guy who had tried to bust AssMaster was scuttling down the dock with one of those nets-on-a-pole you use to clean a pool. He ran right past them and down to the end of the dock where he could reach the can of Busch.
“Ready to roll?” HotPocket asked the boys.
“Yeah, this party’s dying,” AssMaster said.
They thanked one and all for the awesome party, never actually finding out whose it was.
Sadly, they never got to accomplish task number three, but HotPocket figured BuschLight kind of did it for them, and AssMaster did hook up in a boat that wasn’t his, which is pretty fucking sweet.
But Operation Party was not yet complete – they still had to make their way back across town to their house. HotPocket didn’t mind walking, but during his twenty years on this planet he’d learned a few tricks to make life easier.
He pulled out an unopened pint of rum he had taken from the party, swigged the top few shots, and time traveled to his floor the next morning.
Operation Party: complete.
Moral: If you call a night of drinking and debauchery an “Operation” you are not an alcoholic. You’re a Purpose-Driven Drinker!
Go to Alex's Official Site, www.AlexBash.com
Buy The ImBible: Drinking Games for Times You'll Never Remember with Friends You'll Never Forget
alexbash1@gmail.com
Sometimes The Imbible and I watch the sunrise.
Alex Bash is author of The Imbible: Drinking Games for Times You’ll Never Remember with Friends You’ll Never Forget, currently available for pre-order on amazon.com. It hits shelves August 5th, and is not responsible for your lowered GPA and standards.
In contrast to his general belligerence, Alex works at a hospital where he saves lives, which he likes to remind people is no big deal. He can say otolaryngology in three languages and knows more about the Orbitofrontal Cortex than is necessary for someone who is not, technically, a doctor. He enjoys bubblegum toothpaste, strawberry Pop Tarts, and bench press.
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Pretty Much Daily Quote
"A drunk man's words are a sober man's thoughts...except slurred, deragatory, and covered in Mexican food."
~ Alex Bash, 2008
Blog
Letting Yourself be Overwhelmed
(7/16/08) Sometimes life can be overwhelming, and even all the beer in the world can't help. It's at time like these you need to let yourself be overwhelmed, even if only for a moment, and then fight back against the forces that be.
Also, you should switch to hard liquor, because it gets you drunk faster.
Growing Up
(7/9/08)Sometimes when I look back at my life and the things I’ve done and been in to over the years, I get sad because I know I’ll never possess that level of ignorance. I’ll never be able to be the young and blissful without knowing that at least part of it is an act. The silliness will never be as silly, the goofiness never as goofy, and Saturday morning cartoons will become infinitely less entertaining without the addition of either nudity or cursing.
Then again, I can now legally drink myself into oblivion by my own free will, get a blowjob in the bar’s bathroom stall, and watch the sun rise from the top of a water tower I’m finally strong enough to climb.
Maybe growing up isn’t so bad.
Drinking with my best friends: Imbible, Imbible, Imbible, and Steve.
I really wish I could remember where this was taken.
People have told me this picture encapsulates who I am. Not sure what to think of that.
My editor sent me an extra large digital copy of The Imbible. I brought it to Canada with me...eh.
When in Rome, do as a frat boy does when he has ten minutes to get drunk for a date function.
Undefeated, naturally.
Synopsis
What do you do when you wake up in an unfamiliar neighborhood hand-cuffed to a fire hydrant, clothed in nothing but socks and pink nail polish, your hand clutching a stained legal document…written in French? Celebrate! You just had a great night! And to think—it all started with The ImBible.
Praise for The Imbible
"The Imbible introduces Bash as a major new talent in the genre of 'books most likely to make you run through campus naked…'" – Officer Hernandez
"A stunning debut by that guy who kept us up 'til 4am with drunken choruses of Wonder Wall..." - The Sorority Next Door
"A moving story about a college freshman eventually finding his pants from last night." - Overpaid Lobbyist
"No, but really, the book is hilarious. He's a seriously funny author." – Guy who is taking this way too seriously
"I have not woken up before noon since Alex wrote this book. I'm not sure if this is a good or bad thing." – Alex's roommate
Sample Games
Why You Should Buy The Imbible
If you feel bad buying a book about drinking, just cover up the first 5 letters.
The U.S. Marines’ first recruiting station was in a bar. The Marines kill bad people. Are you pro bad people?
Because if you don’t remember how you got the scar, you can make up as manly as story as you like.
18 games of beer pong is a scapegoat for anything.
THE IMBIBLE is guaranteed to lower your standards in 5 chapters or less!
Random Quotes from The Imbible
Emotions can definitely run high, so it's in your best interest to drink yourself numb.
Can you get a DUI riding a bike around the playground? I think not!
It’s only a matter of time before we’re boning fat chicks and singing-along to American Pie.
Note: Gold Medals do not prevent whiskey dick.
Whether you wear pants or not when you do this is on you.
I hope God doesn't count this night against me.
Pre-gaming a career fair.
Sometimes The Imbible and I do the Can-Can at 4am and then wake up in the front lawn clutching three empty bottles of champagne.