Have you been wondering what I’ve been doing? I’m glad you asked. I have been training, friends. Training.
For this weekend is Noonan-fest, and all who are unworthy shall plummet from the heights of Awesomedom, fueled only by inebriated vomit and a desire to not have that last shot of Jagermeister.
There’s been some palpable fear this year about Noonanfest. There are those who feel that they have not trained hard enough – that their livers will betray them at the last moment and fail, allowing the alcohol coursing through their system to magically transform into puke via a scientific method not unlike photosynthesis, though instead of standing in the sunlight and converting it into food you will see how many Irish Carbombs you can drink. We’ll call it “pukosynthesis.” I have made science.
Anyway, the fear. So I’ve been privy to some whispered phonecalls, some words spoken out of the corners of mouths, all with the same topic: “we’re dead this year.” It’s given me some anxiety, buoyed by the fact that things seem more disorganized than normal. Eric has bailed out of this year’s festivities (illness), there were hurried plans of a LAN party that didn’t seem to materialize, and we are left to drift and hope that a captain will once again take the rudder of the H.M.S. Pukosynthesis.
Let us hope that our fears are unfounded, my good and gentle readers. And in the spirit of Thanksgiving, let us give thanks for Noonanfest and its ability to strike terror in the hearts of men accustomed to typing on their computers all day, like the trumpet call of a rider just before the final charge against a fearsome enemy. I just got all Lord of the Rings there.
And I’m Gandalf, bitches.