Getting shitcanned to raise money for cancer doesn't exactly seem appropriate, but it's probably the best way to get young people to donate. I mean $45 is a small price to pay for a day of drinking with your friends in matching t-shirts.
I've wanted to participate in this "fundraiser" ever since Whitney and I were nursing our hangovers with Joe's Pizza in Westport one Saturday afternoon and we saw the mob of different colored shirts constantly walking past the windows - some teams with hats, socks and other crazy accessories. After a little research, I found that even though the event was twice a year, it was nearly impossible to form a team and actually participate with the mixture of noncommittal people and the fact that everybody and their mother wanted to sign up. You pretty much have to sign up about two months in advance.
But this time a few people dropped out of my friend Jeff's team and I jumped at the chance to fill in. I knew Jeff and a handful of other people vaguely from the two teams that met at his apartment yesterday morning, but I put on my red shirt and blended with the veteran crawlers. Five bars, a few trips on a party bus, some pole dancing, some regular dancing, a run in with a balloon man on stilts, an unnecessarily long game of drunken sand volleyball in a skirt, the murder of my pink poodle balloon hat and about 20 pitchers of Coors Light later, we ended up shoving pizza in our faces at Joe's. Then, because 75 gallons of beer is not nearly enough, what was left of the group went to power hour at The Dark Horse.
By about 9:30 p.m. I was back at Jeff's place with a bunch of guys and still too drunk to drive home although the hangover headache was slowly creeping in. I learned I'm horrible at Rock Band and made my headache come on even faster by hanging upside down on Jeff's pull up bar and tossing a medicine ball back and forth. I passed out about six times on the couch watching Planet Earth before I finally got up and drove home after 3 a.m. The best part was the fact that I actually thought I was going to be able to make it to another pub crawl that night...I'm sad I missed the golf pub crawl, but since I was drunk, hungover and recovered all in one day, I was in good enough shape this morning to bring all of their hungover asses bagels and listen to the stories.
Now I see why they only do this thing twice a year - you need six months to recover from the last one, but I'm ready. Bring on October. Boo cancer, yea beer!