Circus Sized Peanuts

First out, whoever found the blog by searching "and then we all bought yachts"; I have a soft spot in my heart for you. That's awesome.

So, last night I rode my bike down to get some tacos for dinner. The idea was to have a couple of beers and eat three tacos al pastor. I care for them mucho. I watched a rerun of Man U v. Watford from last year that they had on and ate my tacos. Man U spanked them 4 - 1. Soccer talk. Then, the guy who took over keeper for me for one of my teams so that I wasn't constantly turf burned and limping showed up. It's part of breaking my soccer cycle. We talked about the game that I have tonight and two beers turned into four. Then, one of the bartenders was talking to me about how he was going to Vegas this weekend for his bachelor party. He was sure that he was lucky because he had just been let go on a 75 in a 55 by a CHP. I told him he was let off because it's the second of the month and ticket quotas aren't kicking yet. He got a little irritated with me, so instead of a tip I gave him a buck and a lottery ticket. I was like "Prove it, dude." He scratched his winning number that he had to match to win as I watched intently over his shoulder. That grey crap was shooshed away with a dime in time to reveal ol' lucky number thirteen. I fucking lost it and started cracking up. Then, to recover, I told him that he was just bleeding out all his bad luck before he went. Went home and got ready for bed before it got dark...like I'm 8 years old.

Got to bed later than I would've liked, but got lazy and rolled into work an hour late today so that kind of made up for it. As it turns out, today is work picnic day. It's a three ring circus of awesome people watching.

I work in a pretty blue collar work place. At least, most of the people have their names on their shirts. When I first started, I had to prove myself or I was going to get shivved. At the first work Christmas party I was nearly killed next to the Sheraton pool. This big dude fuckin' came at me and started talking all this shit about all the time he had done in prison and got up in my shit for some reason. I'm blaming handsome and a shit eating grin. To be honest, if I was drinking, I may have been baiting, but I may have been innocent on this one. So, anyway, my female boss jumped between us and kept us separated for the night. If I had a male boss, someone would've went in the pool and I probably would have lost my job and maybe a fuckin' tooth.

For the next two years, I worked to bridge the gap between myself and some of the people that I worked with. They thought that since I wore a button up shirt to work and had an office upstairs that I was a rich asshole. I proved to them that I was Palo Alto poor and not that much different than them after about four years. It's quite an accomplishment, now that I look back on it.

Anyway, the picnic is today and features catering provided by the Grill Sergeant (sounds like something from The Simpsons) and a cover band. Last year, I got drunk and sat in for Little Wing and some other song. Jack-Fucking-Ass. Pulled it off, though. I just need a key signature and I can fake my way through anything. There is also a horseshoe tournament, a hat contest sometimes, and a giveaway item. My kitchen is composed of work logo emblazened glassware because of these giveaways. SPOILER ALERT: This year's giveaway is a beach mat. I'm really going to need to find a girl to give these beachmats, visors and canvas bags that I get at some of the events that I go to. The girl in charge of it always asks me what I think we should get because I used to deal in the tradeshow tchotke circuit. This year I suggested a rape whistle or flask. She wasn't a huge fan of either of those.

So, where was I. Oh, I was sandbagging the reader because the whole reason I am writing this is because there is a fucking cake walk at the picnic. And, it is walked to the live band. If you have never seen adults cakewalking to a live band, you have either never hallucinated on some good shit or have never lived. The first time I saw it, I could not move. I was absolutely frozen like a lean cuisine in the cat lady's groceries in front of me in line at Safeway. It's been five years and I'm getting used to it now. Or, at least I'm able to move when I watch it, but every year I can feel the energy in the air leading up to the event. Fuck the food, fuck the beer and fuck the beachmat. I'm at the picnic to see the Cakewalk...and to figure out their beer regulation method and break it.

That's the other thing I like about the picnic. Being the resident Chico Alumnus, I am consulted on all things to do with kegs. These topics include tapping them in a fashion to limit foam, pouring them in a fashion to limit foam and exactly how many red cups can be filled from one keg. I then put the number of cups to a keg in a spreadsheet and ran it against the number of expected employees and have seriously come within four cups of perfect for a couple of years. I have since passed the formula on and am no longer involved with the kegs. I've moved onto beer consumption regulation cracking.

The idea is that each employee is limited to a maximum of two beers each. That way we can have booze at the event and no one gets all shithoused and wrecks their car on the way home. We'd be responsible and have to cancel the booze at the picnic. Nobody wants that to happen, so we create methods to monitor what everyone has had to drink. The first year that I was here they did tickets. The work around was to find non-drinkers and get their tickets. That was a 10 (+8) beer day and absolutely no challenge.

So, the next year, maybe allegedly because of my gross abuse of their system, they brought in the stamp system. One stamp per beer. People with two stamps cannot get any more beer. Whatevs, dude. I went to the soda bin and put my hand in the water and ice and rubbed my stamp off. That was a 12 beer day (+10). I may have been self-medicating at that one.

Since then, I've figured out that if I just pour and hang around my old boss we'll just get wasted at the picnic. Last year, he took me on a quick tour of benchmarks around my work. That sounds like Dudley in the kiddie pool with the dude from WKRP. Gross. So, I guess the best method to crack the beer regulation system is just diplomacy and charm.

This year, I'm retiring from fucking with the system because I have a soccer game tonight and I'm a lot better not hungover and not under the influence. I will drink about a hundred Diet Cokes, though, and if I'm lucky, eat a fucking cake.