Calliope Writing


Graffiti Magazine Volume 1 Issue 21
November 3, 2009, 7:18 pm
Filed under: My Magazine Articles | Tags: , ,
Graffiti - Stupid Mike Pub Crawl
Stupid Mike’s Pub Crawl

 


I have officially been de-virginized.  Before the evening of November 23rd, I had never . . . been on a pub crawl (and you thought I was talking about sex—silly rabbits!).  Stupid Mike’s 3rd Annual 21st Birthday Pub Crawl gave people, including me, good reason to drink.  For ten bucks, I got a t-shirt and was able to take part in drink specials at every bar we hit up.  And it was for a good cause—portions of the proceeds went to My Sister’s House, a charity for battered women, and MUSC Children’s Fund.

 

But I was nervous.  Almost as nervous as when I was penetrated for the first time.  So much pressure!  Could I last through the whole thing without passing out?  Would there be pain?  Palms sweaty and throat dry, I basically chugged my first beer at Charleston Beer Works.  The special was $2 Bud Lights, and I ordered one, as it is my brand of beer.

Stupid Mike himself didn’t put my concerns at ease.  In between gulps of cold beer, he confessed that he didn’t survive the entire crawl last year.  The man himself only made it about halfway, and then passed out in a drunken stupor.  This year, he promised to make it to the end by pacing himself like a sound adult.  Pacing yourself?  The words were, and still are, foreign to me.  I put the notion out of my head, though, when the Charleston Scottish Pipe Band revved up their bagpipes and led the way to our next destination.

The next stop was the Kickin’ Chicken, where Coors Light was only $2 . . . and I got a, Bud Light.  I could tell I was well on my way to trashed—I’ve never laughed so hard at a grown man dressed in a chicken costume.  Poor guy.  It’s a dirty, demeaning job, but someone had to do it.  My drunk status was confirmed when I not only mistook a man for a woman but felt the need to inform the she-male of my mistake.  This girl on the town doesn’t know when to keep her big trap shut.

The bagpipes roared, we chugged the remainder of our beers, and walked down the chilly street to our next stop:  Cumberland’s.  It’s one of my favorite bars, and if you want the full scoop, dig through your Graffiti back-issues and read my review in Volume 1, Issue 18.  The highlight of this stop was a ridiculously trashed guy lecturing to me how awful it is to lose a credit card.  “You have no idea what it’s like!” he kept slurring.  I just nodded my head.  Right.  As if I’ve never misplaced my Visa.

Maybe I should have followed Stupid Mike’s advice and paced myself.  Because Cumberland’s was my last stop.  Everyone else proceeded to Wasabi, Market Street Saloon, and Wild Wing.  Not me.  I admit it, I am a pussy.  But next year, this chick’s gonna make it all the way through.  You can bet on it.


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