Nerf and alcohol do not mix
Men are always on the prowl to sink to the lowest common denominator.
Take Sunday, for example.
My bestest friend and his wife were having a baby shower. She’s due in July. Husbands and children were invited as well.
“Wonder if it’ll be like a barbecue with hamburgers. Hotdogs and beer,” I said.
“There’s no liquor at baby showers,” my wife said. “I’ve never been to a baby shower that served alcohol.”
“You don’t know (my friend) or (my friend’s mom),” I said.
There was beer, wine and champagne.
I helped myself to the champagne (with a little Creme de Cassis and fresh raspberries). I poured some for the wife.
We had a few glasses. There was appetizers and talk (we let the women take over the outside patio).
Me and my buddy found ourselves secluded in the television room, while the women “oooohed” and “ahhhhed” over the gifts.
We drank more champagne.
The couple have a 6 year old boy. We bought him a Spiderman fishing rod and gave him a coupon for a guy’s day fishing trip (you have to be over 5 to participate) to compensate for all the baby attention (they’re expecting another boy).
“I bought him these this morning, thinking the same as you,” my buddy said.
It was the coolest pair of Nerf handguns I’d ever seen.
We started plinking away at a plastic champagne cup on the TV.
“Hey (my friend’s son), come here,” I said.
"yeah, come here for a minute," my buddy said.
He did as he was told, slid open the screen door, and entered the room.
We shot the boy in the chest.
His little friend was there, stripped down to his underwear and a personal floatation device, since they’d been in the pool. They squealed in glee as we gave them the weapons and let them tear-ass around the back yard.
We had another glass of bubbly.
The little ones handed their weapons back to the adults. We spied the little, little one. He’s 3 or 4, I can’t remember.
“Run and we’re going to shoot you,” my buddy said.
“Noooooooooo!?!?!” the boy said.
“Yes, you’re wearing that floaty thing, it won’t hurt,” I said.
“Noooooooo!” he said.
“Look,” my buddy said, grim and serious, “either run, or we’re going to shoot you right here.”
He looks up at us, lower lip extended over the upper, and out of his mouth comes a barely audible, “OK.”
And he takes off running.
We missed. Badly.
After that, he kept his distance.
We retired to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
Take Sunday, for example.
My bestest friend and his wife were having a baby shower. She’s due in July. Husbands and children were invited as well.
“Wonder if it’ll be like a barbecue with hamburgers. Hotdogs and beer,” I said.
“There’s no liquor at baby showers,” my wife said. “I’ve never been to a baby shower that served alcohol.”
“You don’t know (my friend) or (my friend’s mom),” I said.
There was beer, wine and champagne.
I helped myself to the champagne (with a little Creme de Cassis and fresh raspberries). I poured some for the wife.
We had a few glasses. There was appetizers and talk (we let the women take over the outside patio).
Me and my buddy found ourselves secluded in the television room, while the women “oooohed” and “ahhhhed” over the gifts.
We drank more champagne.
The couple have a 6 year old boy. We bought him a Spiderman fishing rod and gave him a coupon for a guy’s day fishing trip (you have to be over 5 to participate) to compensate for all the baby attention (they’re expecting another boy).
“I bought him these this morning, thinking the same as you,” my buddy said.
It was the coolest pair of Nerf handguns I’d ever seen.
We started plinking away at a plastic champagne cup on the TV.
“Hey (my friend’s son), come here,” I said.
"yeah, come here for a minute," my buddy said.
He did as he was told, slid open the screen door, and entered the room.
We shot the boy in the chest.
His little friend was there, stripped down to his underwear and a personal floatation device, since they’d been in the pool. They squealed in glee as we gave them the weapons and let them tear-ass around the back yard.
We had another glass of bubbly.
The little ones handed their weapons back to the adults. We spied the little, little one. He’s 3 or 4, I can’t remember.
“Run and we’re going to shoot you,” my buddy said.
“Noooooooooo!?!?!” the boy said.
“Yes, you’re wearing that floaty thing, it won’t hurt,” I said.
“Noooooooo!” he said.
“Look,” my buddy said, grim and serious, “either run, or we’re going to shoot you right here.”
He looks up at us, lower lip extended over the upper, and out of his mouth comes a barely audible, “OK.”
And he takes off running.
We missed. Badly.
After that, he kept his distance.
We retired to the kitchen for a cup of coffee.
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