August 23, 2011. It began like any other day, ostensibly forgetful in the interminable loop of Corporate America’s ruthless drubbing on the souls of the Entitled Generation. But, like numerous nefarious numbers that not only nauseate us but also navigate us to the nadir of our emotional nexuses, 8/23 would nail itself into national notoriety (Alliteration Count: 11 – new P.R.!).
At approximately 1:51 EDT, while many grasped at the straws of the last nine minutes of their lunch break looking for something to fill the emptiness of a pre-PO-Life world, terror struck the eastern seaboard. Four miles below the surface of simple Louisa County, Virginia, home to roughly the same number of people as undergraduates at the University of Colorado-Boulder, the Earth’s tectonic plates began their best R. Kelly impersonations. Ordinarily, a quake of this magnitude would be categorized as an afternoon rumble. By Californian’s standards, it’s the Richter scale equivalent of Jessica Simpson’s stomach growl upon entering a Jack-in-the-Box.
But DC doesn’t share the same indifference towards fault-line friction as Mr. Kelly. We’re the epicenter of a unique dichotomy of inaction and overreaction. We pride ourselves in log-jamming any type of movement towards accomplishing anything for which we cannot attribute an additional vote. We stop letting federal employees *cough* Eli *cough* go to afternoon Nationals games because SOMEONE had to go and blow a bunch of taxpayer dollars on a bicycle building team-building event. And, we get super passive aggressive over 225 year old laws.
So with no earthquake procedures in place, havoc broke loose. The streets of downtown Washington became indistinguishable from those of Tripoli. Even The Washington Post’s cover photo was ambiguous. Are those two Libyan women fleeing rebel forces? Or two GS-12s finding solace in each other’s warm embrace?
8/23, like so many other infamous dates in American history, exposed our cushy lifestyles and lack of preparedness. However earthquakes, unlike other disasters in the Sim City 2000 rolodex, offer little to no early warning signs. There is no miracle fix, like the terrorism threat level color chart which taught us that the difference between a high threat level and a severe threat level is only a few nanometers on the visible light spectrum.
By now, you’ve been reading ad nauseum about our group’s epic battle to be Eli’s best man. The Groomsman Games celebrated everything The PO Life is about – senseless bickering, ruthless competition, and brovacious conceitedness. But, more so than any of that, it was one giant pre-game for celebrating the upcoming nuptials of Eli and his blushing bride-to-be. After months of anticipation, the big weekend is here.
Weddings are the absolute best. Everyone brings out their party A-game in the name of the bride and groom. It’s like being in a bar for Game 7 of the World Series and everyone there is rooting for the same team as you. Usually you have the obnoxious guy who’s cheering for the opponent yet can’t name the Game 4 starter or the jaded debbie-downer who’s team finished below .500 for a decade straight. But not today. Everyone here is on a mission, some would say from God, to party their asses off.
Let’s do this thing!
1) Boom Boom with the Bridesmaids – Ah shit, did I just quote the American Wedding trailer? Fuck. Ok. Start over. Pretend that didn’t happen.
Weddings are great for single, lazy people. First, every single woman in the audience feels the empty void of companionship growing logarithimically as each piece of cake is cut. It’s really unfair. It’s the textbook definition of low hanging fruit. And the best part of it is, the bride and groom know this. They specifically pair up single people at tables at the reception! You literally don’t even have to stand to meet someone. It’s too easy.
If you’re looking for a guy, we’re all pretty much DTF 24/7 so that’s a win too, I guess.
Eli’s Wedding Outlook: Un/Fortunately, I’m off the market, as are Al, Bart, and Eddy (Cliff unfortunately won’t be able to make it due to fulfilling a selfish desire to selflessly defend his country in Afghanistan). Best of luck McCannon.
2) Get Outta Town - There’s nothing worse than a wedding that’s within spitting distance of your place of legal residence. Half the fun of a wedding is creating an inescapable bubble in a far off land where everyone is committed to raging until the bartenders start pulling out firearms to keep the crowd back. The other half of the fun of a wedding is piping in random “Employee Only” areas of hotels.
Seriously, who wants to go back to their house after a wedding? You’re tarnishing the legacy of R. Kelly by denying an after-party AND the hotel lobby. Poor form.
Eli’s Wedding Outlook: Kudos to Eli and Future Mrs. Eli on booking a wedding venue 15 miles away from a casino. While it will be tough to drag many of the ancillary wedding guests there, the lack of their presence will be made up by the plethora of blackjack chips in front of me at 4AM.
3) Old People Dancing - There’s nothing quite like taking ambitious, nostalgic grandparents and pairing them up with modern day Billboard Top 40 hits. It happens at every wedding. The moment when the DJ gets a little liberal in his/her song selection and throws in some tunes that rock the traditionalism boat. There always seems to be a seamless transition from “You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman” to “Sexy Bitch”. And for some reason, grandparents are totally OK with this. They’re blinded by the undying love for their grandchildren that even the poetic words of “Drank in My Cup” by a guy named Kirko Bangz can suddenly become a body shaker. I don’t know how it happens. But it does. And it’s awesome.
It’s also my firm belief that modern day pimps modeled their accessories after seeing older men tear up the dance floor at weddings, cane in tow.
Eli’s Wedding Outlook: I don’t think I’ve ever actually met any of Eli or Future Mrs. Eli’s grandparents. That being said, if the Groomsman Games proved anything, it was that grandmother’s love me. I’ve already warned my girlfriend that she’ll have competition at the end of the night. Deal with it.
4) Drunk Uncles – Just like old people dancing, drunk uncles serve one and only one purpose: to upstage their younger counterparts and prove they still got it. Usually, this is the result of years and years of repetitive unfulfilled dreams and desires. A crushed soul, if you will. And probably a failed (or failing) marriage. Sprinkle in a kid or two under the age of eight who’s at home with the sitter and you’ve got the recipe for inappropriate touching, microphone coups, and drinking the bar clean of Schaefer’s.
Eli’s Wedding Outlook: Future Mrs. Eli told me she was “genuinely concerned” about our group uniting with her band of uncles. We can’t disappoint the bride on the biggest day of her life, now can we?
5) The Actual Couple – When all’s said and done, points 1-4 pale in comparison to the two people whose calligraphical names were barely legible on the pastel envelope you received months ago. Hopefully, these people are awesome. Like my old roommate who stayed out until 2AM with his new bride and let me third wheel it back with them in a cab to the hotel we were all staying in. However, if they do suck, and you’re contractually bound or pussy-whipped to attend, there’s always the opportunity to horde the giveaways. Suckers.
Eli’s Wedding Outlook: Rather than get all sappy and sentimental here, I thought it would be fun to post the YouTube video of our speeches on Tuesday morning after the holiday weekend. Come back and visit us in a few days to see if we famed or flamed.
In the meantime, from all of us at The PO Life and our legions of follower(s), a big congratulations to Eli and Mrs. Eli!
The year is 1995. Economic prosperity has reached new heights, as the Dow eclipses the 4,000 point mark for the first time in history. Yet, all is not well.
America sits on the brink of destruction from a bioterrorism attack. What begins as a small, contained endemic quickly escalates into a full blow epidemic that grips the United States. Mass panic and fear of the uncertainty consume the heart of the nation. Outbreaks are reported coast-to-coast, from New York and Philadelphia to Charlotte and Phoenix. The symptoms range from “five-feet nuthin’ girls blocking [one's] shots” to impotence.
Worst of all, there is no recognizable common source of the infection. That is, until creatures from a foreign land reveal the zoonotic cause. The world would call upon its savior – professional minor league baseball player Michael Jordan – one final time, to fight tyranny and oppression.
Chronicled in the 1996 classic, Space Jam, this tale became cemented into cinematic lore to teach our children the valuable lessons of exchanging your life for amusement park imprisonment. Accompanying the $230 million success story was a 14-track ensemble of empowering composition that dominated minivan cassette decks for months to come.
Join me, if you will, on a journey through the most inspiring and eclectic 65 minutes of music that humanity has ever had the privilege of being exposed to.