WARNING: This essay contains some dirty words, like "shit" and "Anheuser-Busch", so if this sort of language offends you, then go fuck yourself -- I mean, delete this message.
Thursday, February 8. Milhouse arrives at Les's house, ostensibly so Milhouse will be ready to leave early the next morning. What really happened no one else will ever know, but I did notice that he was walking funny all weekend.
Friday, February 9. Kurt arrives at Les's at like 4 a.m. or some ridiculous hour like that. Tries to sleep but can't due to Milhouse's squealing. Ben arrives a little before 6 a.m. all chipper and spunky. Les, Kurt and Milhouse beat him senseless.
It was colder than a witch's tit in a brass brassiere as we packed the vehicle, hitting the road at 6:07. We made good time, arriving in Boston less than 7.5 hours later, where it was so cold that the flashers were describing themselves.
After checking into the Hotel No-Tell we pumped up our air mattresses (or something inflatable) and the four of us rested. Well, *they* rested; I lay awake because Milhouse's gas could gag a buzzard. It was like having Wagner there, except without the sodomy.
Don eventually arrived after having flown up to New Hampshire and taken the train down. The five of us then went out to find a place to eat. The temperature, when you include the wind chill, was approximately three degrees Kelvin. The only reason we didn't freeze our nuts off was that they had been sucked up inside our torsos.
We found an Indian buffet. The food was good and, more important, warm. It provided a nice base for the beer that would be laid on top of it. (Heh heh. I said "laid".) In order to save room for beer, we didn't gorge ourselves. For example, I only had four plates, which is the least amount of food I've eaten at a buffet since I was nine.
We ate our fill and got warm, and eventually our testicles descended. Then we once again braved the cold to walk to the fest, which was about a mile away. We arrived a half hour before the doors opened, and there were about a half dozen people waiting ahead of us. Those 30 minutes seemed longer than a Catholic wedding because we were freezing. I think Milhouse and I lost a total of six toes. And a nut. But it was worth it for the beers awaiting us.
This night, called the Night of the Barrels, featured more than 35 beers, of which I tried 32. My favorites were Smuttynose's Smuttonator, Jolly Pumpkin's La Roja, New Belgium's La Terroir, Founders's Backwoods Bastard, Goose Island's Bourbon County Stout, and my favorite, Stone's Bourbon Barrel-Aged Imperial Russian Stout. There were some not-so-good beers there too. For example, Anheuser-Busch had the audacity to show themselves. I even tried two of their beers to give them a fair chance. I've had rice cakes with more flavor. There were no Maryland breweries. Brian S. and Lauree were there, bringing the CRABS representation total to seven. I very briefly met Jim Koch. I told him, "I appreciate the hard work you've put into paving the way for craft brewers." Well, that's what I was thinking anyway. I had already sampled about 25 beers, so what came out of my mouth was, "Heyyouguysrfrigginawsum."
After the session the five of us, plus a couple we somehow hooked up with, took taxis to the Sunset Grill and Tap, which has the largest beer selection in Boston: about 500 beers, including over 100 on tap. We ordered beers and got a table. "That's crazy!" I hear you say. "You guys just came from a beer festival, and you drank *more* beer?" Remember, we were in Massachusetts - Ted Kennedy's home state. You're *supposed* to be as drunk as possible. The penalty for drunk driving there is re-election to the Senate.
While waiting for our food, Milhouse started fading. By the time it arrived he was unconscious. The employees subsequently informed us that we had to go. Apparently in Boston bars it's okay to be a sleazy womanizing asshole, but it's a crime to pass out quietly in a corner. So we packed up our food and left, the manager hailing a taxi for us as we helped Milhouse out. While trying to get Milhouse into the taxi, he fell. The taxi driver, displaying the sort of kind, helpful demeanor that Bostonians are known for, sped off, the door still open. I've seen NASCAR drivers pull out of the pit with less speed.
The bar manager hailed us another taxi, and this time we managed to cram Milhouse in there. Then the rest of us got in. Well, all except Kurt that is. Only 4 of us could fit. But on a positive note we did remember to bring the food, which was important.
We arrived back at the hotel and got Shithouse -- I mean Milhouse -- into our room, where he promptly plopped onto one of the beds. Then the floor. We hoisted him back up onto the mattress. I won't go into what happened after that. Did you ever see Deliverance? No, really, nothing of note happened after that, unless you count the strippers and the midget. A little while later Kurt got back, understandably upset at having been dissed, but we eventually got the knife away from him and we all had a good night's sleep.
Saturday, February 10. We gave Milhouse a recap of what had transpired the night before, and he showed us the bruise on his knee from when he had fallen. Then, in a moment of male bonding, I showed him an old scar of mine. It was from my vasectomy. After nibbling on the nachos and wings we had brought back from the pub, we walked to a Thai restaurant for lunch and had some good food. We then walked to the afternoon beer session, which featured over 100 beers. We arrived shortly before it started, and there had to be more than 500 people waiting already. Brian arrived at the same time we did, and we saw Bo and Marcia in line not too far ahead of us.
I tried 57 beers that day, which is a record for me. The highlights included Samael's Oak-Aged Ale and The Beast Grand Cru, both from Avery; Kuhnhenn's Bourbon Barrel Barleywine; Rogue's Imperial IPA; and Boston Beer Company's Samuel Adams 3 Weiss Men. Smuttynose was, in my opinion, the best brewery of the fest. Their Big A IPA and their Barleywine were great. They also had a triple called The Gnome, which was yeastier than Madonna after her last gang bang.
Apparently after 57 beer samples I was a little tipsy, because the cops singled me out at the end of the session to leave right away. They said something about me being a liability, which is odd because I've always been told I'm an asset. Or something beginning with "ass". The faithful CRABS contingent came to my aid by telling the cops, "Get that fuckin' drunk outta here!" Thanks guys.
Les, Don, I, and three strangers went to the Publick House, which boasts over 300 beers. Apparently I was still a bit inebriated because before we could order our first beer the bartender told us to leave. So we all went to a nearby pizza place for some very good pizza. I kept the other guys entertained with Jesus and pedophile jokes, which the kids at the next table didn't appreciate. The three strangers went back to the Publick House and the three CRABS guys hopped on the subway. During the ride I nodded off a few times, to the chagrin of the other passengers who gave me the hairy eyeball, particularly the snob next to me whose lap my head came dangerously close to, but I put them all at ease by telling them, "What the f&^$ are you lookin' at? Haven't you ever seen a drunken Jew before?" I know this is exactly what happened because the arresting officers showed me the security tape.
After dropping me off at the hotel, Les and Don joined Milhouse and Kurt at some bar, but of course I wasn't there so I don't know what went on. They did eventually tell me that they drank dozens of beers between them, which shows what a wimp I am because there's no way I could've even taken cough syrup in the state I was in. I was so drunk that Ted Kennedy wanted to drink my urine.
When they returned I had been passed out for a little while (about four hours). Milhouse once again managed to beat me for the Biggest Drunk of the Night award, although I was now ahead of him 2-1 in getting thrown out of places.
I woke up feeling hot in the middle of the night, and I didn't know why. Could it have been all the beer? The Thai food? The male prostitute I had sex with? (Only kidding - it was a female.)
Sunday February 11. After another good night of sleep despite snoring from Don and Les that would have kept Helen Keller awake, we packed and left. (Les claimed he didn't snore, which is kind of like Paris Hilton claiming she's not a whore.) Don took the train out of town and the rest of us hit the road by 11 a.m. The Massachusetts Pike was only two blocks from the hotel, but Boston, in true fashion, clusterfucked us with a detour that got us hopelessly lost. Not only that, there was lots of traffic even though it was Sunday morning. Fortunately Les had brought his GPS, which got us even more lost, which just goes to show what morons we are: four guys couldn't find a major highway using a geolocational satellite.
We spent half an hour waiting in traffic and navigating one-way streets. I tell you, driving in Boston sucks more than a three dollar hooker on two-for-one night. Eventually we found the highway and were on our way. We stopped to drop the kids off at the pool in - where else? - New Jersey. By the way, you know why they call New Jersey the Garden State? Because of all the industrial plants.
Toward the end of our journey we made a small detour to have dinner at the Iron Hill Brewery in Wilmington DE. The food and most of the beers were very good. Afterwards we stopped at State Line Liquors in Elkton MD to buy beer. They have quite a selection of microbrews and Belgians.
We made it back to Les's and parted ways, thus ending a successful weekend in which we sampled over 100 beers, had lots of fun, and got thrown out of three places. The only injury of the weekend was Milhouse's knee, unless you count the cirrhosis.