You can't sweat out . . .

The illustrious Mr. Beads, Suit Up Sunday, and the Booze Bet

In Just absolutely dominating people on January 15, 2009 at 1:55 am

Two things I can’t live without? Water and sleep. Two things I wouldn’t want to live without? Killer music and selecting attire for the sole purpose of being awesome. Right now I am listening to The National’s Alligator, so I have the former covered on my end. A fine example of someone who loves the latter is my somewhat reformed (social probation to law school, holding a bottle of Colt .45 in his left hand to a having ring on that hand) roommate in college and one of my best friends, Beads.

Beads is one of the most legendary characters you could hope to meet, and also one of the people in my life who I have the most respect for. The ability in college to consistently walk near the precipice of expulsion while sitting pretty on the Dean’s List was an inspiration for me, though I never achieved either, for better and for worse. Sure, he may have broken his foot drunkenly walking up the stairs a week before we graduated, and yes, he may have let our Australian roommate talk him into getting a pink cast. But that was so 2005. Today he is the owner of a home and a puppy, an accepted member of his wife’s family, and a future lawyer. But you know what? Under this facade of respectability, he still a wildcat. Now that he is married, his shenanigans have to be a more controlled, but when he wants to, he can still bring the heat like no other. For instance, he couldn’t make it to our New Year’s Eve Party this year, but he arrived bright and early for Day Two with Mad Dogs in his hand and helped ensure that we would have to work hard for the next 364 days to top it. The first site that comes up with you type Mad Dog into Google? Enough said.

Anyway, one passion Beads and I share is for sometimes dressing ridiculously.  For instance, he spent the entire night of his bachelor party walking around Atlantic City in a custom made, 3-piece Burberry print suit that he acquired for the princely sum of $20 while studying abroad in China. I showed up at his house two nights before his wedding with a mustache.  My Halloween costume this year, a member of Team Zissou, featured his baby blue Wal-Mart sweatsuedo, which I borrowed from his place after we had gone out the previous night in Morristown NJ with matching Fu Manchus for no other reason than it was high time for a good facial hair party.

So, when I threatened to “wear a suit just to spite [him]” after he invited us to his house this Sunday to watch football and instructed us to “keep it informal,” the idea for Suit Up Sunday was born. As a result, I will be traveling to Morristown NJ with the Chaz Bone, another college roommate of ours and an all around swell guy. We will be wearing our most dashing thrift store style outfits, watching football and drinking heavily. It reeks of class and ridiculousness. I am actually looking forward to riding an hour on NJ Transit dressed to the Salvation Army Nines to take part in such a spectacle. The ultimate goal, of course, is to look like the guys in one of those Canadian Club “Damn right your Dad drank it” commercials (It now becomes even more woefully evident that I need to learn how to incorporate pictures onto this). To that end, Beads has promised Canadian Club, and because we are just that classy, Keystone Lights.

To create the stakes, I have come up with the following Booze Bet for Suit Up Sunday:

1) For every day that comes after he reads this for the first time, I owe him a shot.

a) So, if he reads this today (Thursday), I owe him three shots (for Thursday, Friday and Saturday), and so on.

b) Sunday is not only God’s Day, it is also Suit Up Sunday, so if he reads this then, he will have three shots poured when we enter his home, so we can all adequately make a toast to our sick outfits.

As we will not mention this bet before my arrival, upon my entrance, one shot must be poured and ready for immediate consumption, and Beads must tell me how many additional shots (if any) I owe within 5 minutes . Otherwise, I will let loose an evil laugh and instruct him to check out JSF to discover that:

2) If he greets me at the door with no shot, it will mean he has not read this, despite having wasted massive amounts of time surfing the internet since I posted this, and he will therefore owe me one of the following penalties (of his choosing):

a) 1 slap across the face (this may sound harsh, but I think he actually enjoys being slapped)

b) 1 shotgun of a Keystone Light followed by 1 shot of Canadian Club

c) He has to get up and fetch me a fresh drink whenever I request it for the remainder of Suit Up Sunday

As always, there are few things that give me the fever more than Sunday Funday.

  1. My old asphalt dawg,

    I do not share your penchant for fine dress, likely because I went to the wrong CBB school, my bad, and I apologize.

    What I do share (aside from a 1996 Maine State AAU Championship Trophy) is your tremendous appreciation for rockin’ tunes. Granted you probably don’t have nearly the same affinity for 1980’s hair bands as I do (or 80’s music in general–few do) but I have come to you with a question–what ever happened to the saxophone? Come on now, we all know how every big time ballad or fun pop tune between 1978 and 1989 had a kick-ass sax solo. The sax was to music what an Irish Car Bomb is to a night of drinking–everyone’s enjoying the show, cruising along and having a good time until the Car Bomb’s start flowing, and then holy hell it’s all over, people take it to the next level, and awesomeness ensues.

    Bruce Dickinson had a fever, and so do I. Unfortunately I’m not in position to advocate for the sax like Bruce was able to for the cowbell.

    I look forward to your thoughts, Sean.

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