FUCK YES! We NEED the details, man! The wife is gone, which is always always alwytas an excuse perfectamente to get shittyslammedassdurnk. And when the wifre doesn't go awy, then HEAD FOR THE HILLS!

Last weekend, I needed to get off for a good drunk. So on Friday I called Kate and said "I'm gone, see you early Sunday.' and I headed up the hill to Andrew's cabin, because that's where the brewery is. Now, I lied a little, 'cause i told Kate I would be home 'early' Sunday. Well, not a lie acutallyt, because it was early sunday evening that I meant and she took it wrong, but that's what shee wanted tobelieve, so it was cool.

So I get up the hill on only two beers, well and a couple of wines before I left, but hardly any drinking in the car which is actually a truck, so I was cool. So I get there and we have to move the Behemoth International Cornbinder out of the basement, which requires the better part of a sixpack of Bud Talls and a number of King Marlboros. Battery dead, can't push it over the rocks, so we end up hooking up Dave's truck and my chain to the Beast and pull it outta the basement.

This creates much room for drinking activities, and a powerful thirst with wich\to perfomr said tasks. We commence into tasting the 20 gallons brewed two weeks earlier, with the inauguration of Gold Bar Ridge Brewery. Two blond beers, intended for early and conspicuous consumption. This was done for a while, while filtration was set up and commenced. This required alternaing shots of bourbon and tequila, because we somehow had gotten into that nasty stuff. Brown liquor is of course different from the clear stuff, and that had to wait until Saturday night.

Dave disappeard somewhere about 11:30, and so we figured we ought to have some food to go along with our adult beverages. So we walked over to my place, because I had started the BBQ and had chicken and vegetables and salad in the cooler for diner. Except for the part about the coals hadn't started, the plan was impeccable. So the coals were ready by 1:00, and the cooking got underway.

Andrew was wandering around babbling about beer and yeast and hops and shit, and was making a serious dent on the bourbon. I had by that time degenerated into the wine, barely laced with a little diet sprite (hey, watching my weight) for somethign to let me know I wasn't drinking water, which the wine started to go down like for some reason.

Food cooked by 2:00 a.m., and we had worked up a powerful thirst along with killing most of what huntger we had earlier. I had a couple pieces of chicken. The vegetables burned on the grill, because I found them the next morning. At something around 4:00, I kicked Andrew out, because the world was getting horizontal.

Saturday, I came to at about 8:45 a.m., but I didn't really come to until about 9:30 after getting a stiff Bloody mary going. Man, it must be Tobasco that works ona hangover, because it beat the hell out of the vicious rat bastard that was working with a Sawzall inside my head. FUCK YOU, I shouted at one point, figuring that maybe a threat would help. I cooked breakfast thinking it would help, but the little bastard wasn't hungry.

Andrew was coming to when I got there, or maybe he had already gotten vertical because he had the hot water going to brew with. He spied my Bloody Mary and tried to snatch it awya from me, figuring that with my eyes, I'd never notice. HAH! I defended the cup with ease, mainly because he hadn't really gotten his full balance set up, and so he was pretty easy to push past me. I offered to build him a red beer, seeing as he didn't seem ready for clear liquor. He accepted, repeatedly.

We made our way to the brewery, and I won't bore you with that tale, because most of you could give a rat's ass about what Lord Bottle's Disciples actually do in order to give worship. Suffice it to say that we spent time at the altar, paying homage to the malt, and hops and ultimately put the yeast into the divine wort, so that they could do whatever magic their little mitochondria had in store. A strange smelling smoke was perceived.

At aobut 4:30, during the mashing of the second batch, it was time to head into town for some food. Andrew buying. We go to get in the car and head back to finish the brew. Andrew says "Let's just stop in Reilly's for a quikc beer." Now, I can't say that any beer is quick, unless it's just one, and I don't see any bar that has a one beer limit, but he's buying andit's his car, and his beer for that matter, so I figure that the wax paper cup of cheap fucking merlot (Corbett Canyon is CRAP - but their marketing is merely subpar) that I'm trying to drink is about done, and it's into the bar we go.

Midnight. I dont' know how many beers. Oh, and there were the obligatory shots of Wild Turkey, because I'm fond of Bud and Birds. It's time to head out to the lake, because we're both getting tranked, haven't eaten for two days, constant drinking, mainly living on Marlboros and Bud, librally laced with strong spirits, and quite frankly, we had 10 gallons of beer neding to be brewed.

At the lake, Andrew decides we need 'Gin and Tonic. He's got this knife that's sharper than a scalpel, and he starts cutting chunks of lime. I'm a little nervous because I'm not sure I could sew his finger back on if he slipped, but no problem. Tanqueray, a lime, and there ya fuckin' go. A gin and tonic. No tonic? No problem, right. The first one was like pouring alcohol on a open cut, and in fact, after all the fucking cigarettes and dope, the alcohol was starting to have an effect. It wouldn't have been so bad in a rocks glass, but all he has are 22 oz. plastic pieces of shit and he doesn't believe in refills.

Somewhere into my second G&T, I look at the clock. 2:00 a.m. Andrew is now got the boil going, and is dumping hops in without measuring. I count at least half a pound go in at one point, and I'm thinking IPA. It's a brown beer, because he's gone fully insane at this point, asking me questions, I'm answering them, he asks the question again, I answer it again, and this goes on for like 15 minutes, until I finally realize I'm not telling him what he wants to hear. I ask "do you want me to answer to the question, or just say 'yes'." He goes "I want the answer." I go "I've been answering the same goddammed question for 15 FUCKING MINUTES!" "Oh."

I gotta go home. My place is like a good par 4 from his, and it's let's see pitch black outside. The route takes me through a forest, the path is maybe a foot wide at it's best. Fine in day. I somehow make it home not only without injury, but without spilling. 22oz is looking good.

Sunday, I'm thinking that there has to be something about staying up, drinking heavily, smoking like a power plant, not eating, that gives spawn to very small and highly evil beings who elect to live their brief life span within one's cranium. The only way to absolutely quash the little bastards is with tincture ethanol. Bloody mary sounds like the gal for the job, but then it's obvious that mere vodka will only have a palliative effect, rather than a terminating one.

Ghod, it's Sunday, what better to do than to begin fervent prayer to Lord Bottle. Demon Rum, Brother Jim Beam, called to join in the demolition of the evil demon within mine skull. They come and enter. Actually, pretty good. A splash of diet Coke, and I'm thinking, well I'll be, this could work out nicely. I get some ice and a cup to take a little communion and Brother Beam says he'd be happy to sit for a while while I pray, and I get to liking the situation a whole lot better. I take communiion thrice.

At Andrew's, the berwery is a wreck. He alleged to have come to with boots still on feet. There is spilt wort on the basement floor, and two fermenters are filled, the third one empty. He has committed the sin of passsing out while brewing, and for this there is only one ablation. To drink from each and every open beer and bottle within the dwelling wherein the sin was committed. "No fucking way, man. No way," he started. "No other way is allowed," I responded with all the solemnity that the situation required. He recognized this at some level and started to pick up cans, visibly relieved to find that none of them contained liquid.

He finished cleaning up the cans, and sighed with relief. "Woah, man, so I guess that's cool." "Sorry, son, but you haven't picked up Lord Bottle's Chalices yet."

"WHAT?" He got a little shrill, but I advised him that there were still bottles remaining to which pennance was owed. I smiled.

There were some evil liquors in Lord Bottle's repertoire, but the Lord requires pennance in interesting ways. Somehow I found myself deep in confession with first Brother Bud, and then Brother Coors. At last though, services were over. We had exorcized the spirit of the spilt wort, and cleaned up a bunch of spilled malt and other crap out of the basement, and in general things looked a lot better.

Fuck, well, I did have to get home.

So I see what you're saying, man. Sometimes you just gotta get absolutely shittyassfuckingdrunk, and that's usually every weekend, whether the wife goes away or not.

-Sully