Migrant Sorrows.

Alright, this is the return of the temporarily absent adventure blog of days past.
This adventure takes us to a time and place called last Saturday, to tell the tale of a group of intrepid wanderers surveying the rugged terrain of grim conurbation through the Stygian hours. No, wait, sorry, it's actually just a story about a couple of drunk idiots walking home in the middle of the night.

Adventure began, as it oft does, very unassumingly. That is, is started with Incrediboy and I drinking semi-warm beer and watching Jeopardy, playing the Jeopardy drinking game. This game consists of selecting a contestant for yourself and from there, your fortune rides with theirs. When they miss a question, you have to drink. Social drinking follows anytime Trebek is a dick to someone. This happens a lot.

Like many other adventures, this one was decided by the whim of Beechnut. To clarify, let's start with the revelation that Beechnut is a advertiser's dream. If he sees a commercial for something, that thing is his ultimate desire until he sees a commercial for something else. This has led to him eating Arby's for three straight days and downloading N.W.A.'s greatest hits album on the spur of the moment. We have made a game of this, called "the Beechnut Game." The rules are simple: when a need overcomes you, you must satisfy that need with the next advertised product. Example: need beer? Wait for the next beer commercial, then go buy that beer. Sadly, this has led to us drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade more than once. On this evening, the Beechnut Game would decide where we were going to eat supper. One sizzling fajita commercial later we found ourselves at Applebee's.

My affinity for Applebee's is known, so I was totally ok with. There were eight of us, including myself, Beechnut, Rrrooo, Incrediboy and others, including a lanky blonde fellow we'll call Stretch Armstrong. The Applebee's experience was great as always; the 2 for $20 deal was taken advantage of (with Beechnut ordering for himself "and the gentlemen") and the Brewtus' were ice cold. Our waiter was a righteous teenaged cat who treated us so well that Stretch Armstrong invited him to join us at a foam party.

The waiter nervously declined, which was good because we weren't going to a foam party. We left Applebee's to return to Icrediboy's humble abode where we devolved into our old ways of slugging beers in various stage of repose. I really hope no disaster ever occurs on a Saturday around 9, because the rescue teams/archaeologists that find my body will think I'm a huge pile, when in reality I am just a medium-sized pile. But I digress. Once we were able to adequately rouse ourselves, we headed to a bar. It seems like no adventure ever takes place in the actual bar surroundings, and this night was no exception. Save, however, the moment where one of our associates almost got kicked out of the bar for administering a dancefloor Stone Cold Stunner.

After that, the bouncer watched us so closely that at one point he was sitting at our table. I can't thrive in this hostile environment, so we hit the road, drunk enough to give ourselves one lofty goal: hit up the pedestrian bridge. No small goal, as the map belows shows.

We hit the road, wandering and stumbling as the tony residential neighborhoods rapidly gave way to rougher streets. At this, I had two main concerns.

One: I didn't want to meet up with this guy.

Two: I didn't have any of this to bribe him or keep myself entertained.

I imagine the night would have turned out quite differently if we'd had a couple of ice cold bottles of Hawaii Blue on us. For starters, we probably would have made it to the pedestrian bridge. As it was though, the steep hills of the walk and the wet blanket humidity of late July had deprived us of our will to win by the time we reached the halfway point of our trip, which, coincidentally, happened to be Incrediboy's house. So, instead of appreciate the breathtaking vistas of the Missouri river at sunrise, we lit a bunch of fireworks and threw them in a port-a-potty.

Such is life.

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