 I was determined to make Frank’s forty-fifth birthday special…and I succeeded…if by special you mean completely sucktastic. It all started out lovely. I awoke him last Friday with a hot cup of coffee, flaming tower of Krispy Kreme donuts, and rousing of rendition of “Happy Birthday.” After breakfast, we loaded up the boat for our big adventure. Mind you, all the man wanted for his birthday was to get a bucket of chicken, bottle of Patron tequila, take our new pontoon all the way to the end of the lake and back, and then return home for birthday sex. That last request was where the problems started. Being in perimenopause, my period is as erratic as Donald Trump, but right before we set out on our journey, I started. Strike One. Anyway, we headed off toward Gwynn Island on what was one of the most beautiful days that the creator ever made. Less than thirty minutes into our voyage, the motor clunked, sputtered, and died. We decided to take a look at it, although neither of us really knowing what we were looking for. So, we took off the engine cover and smoke came billowing out. It doesn’t take a mechanic to know that ain’t right. Determined to make the most of it, while the motor cooled down, we turned up the stereo and started our own floating disco. Frank broke into his best robot and I busted out some old-school moves. Shortly, we worked up an appetite, so we grabbed the tequila and spread out a picnic of chicken, slaw, and potato salad. In the process, Frank got his hands dirty and needed to wash them before we ate. Instead of packing the mondo bottle of Grey Goose for the fruity cocktails we'd planned for later in the day, I’d put the vodka in a clear plastic container, which he mistook for water. I looked over just in time to realize he was washing his hands in thirty dollars worth of good booze. “Well, at least, they’re sterile,” I said, still holding on to hope.  After trying to start the engine to no avail, we realized we had to call Donnie, who is sort of like this lake superhero who comes to the aid of distressed boaters. He left his lunch to come and tow our sorry asses home…AGAIN…fourth time this summer. Still we were determined to “go to White Castle.” This is what we call it when we summon our inner Harold and Kumar and go against all odds and through any obstacle to accomplish a goal. Our goal was a day on the lake, and by God, we were going to have it. Luckily, we have a back-up pontoon. The Bohemian Barge was parked at the top of the hill. All we had to do was move three other trailers, change the hitch on the van, load her up, zip-tie her down, and drop her in. Jason and Tammy were back. Those were the names painted on the rear of the Barge when we bought her. Instead of whitewashing over it, I decided those would become our redneck alter egos who can go around Herrington wreaking havoc with no repercussions to us, since people wouldn't know our real names. . “Fetch me a beer, Tammy.” “Kiss my ass, Jason, get your own damn drink. Can’t you see I’m giving myself a tattoo?” So, we got the Barge in the water only to realize she was out of gas. I had no cash. And, Frank had lost his wallet. After an hour of tearing through his van and the boat, we found it under the seat hidden by a life jacket. Finally, we arrived back at the dock just as dark was falling only to find that a blue heron had shit all over it. Frank and Donna were done. Jason and Tammy were through, too. Fuck “going to White Castle,” we were going to bed.  UPDATE: Last night, we managed to tow the Krazy Kraken to the Boat Doctor. During our birthday bedlam, we melted the gasket...whatever the hell that means. It's going to take a month to fix it...a whole frickin' month...so...
For the next thirty days, watch out Herrington Lake because Jason and Tammy are going to be raising some hell.
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the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.
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