Friday night was all good and well, but we didn’t have enough time to fit in the full beach experience. Saturday allowed for a full celebration of all the beach had to offer. But first, there was that that little issue of practice. We (Mike D and I) had planned it all out the night before: arrive at the fields around 10, be ready to go by 10:30 for a nice short scrimmage against the Wilmington guys. I left our little planning session feeling good about the next day. Mike D left to go sharpen his backstabbing knife.
The next morning we all woke up more or less on time, got in the cars and left for the fields. We made one stop at the grocery store to get supplies and breakfast. Then Mike D set his plan into action. “Hey guys, I didn’t get any breakfast, let’s make a stop at Bojangles for some french fries and gravy!” “But we just stopped” I complained. Mike D, unfazed, proceeded to make fun of my apparent paranoia. Around 10:30 we jumped back into the cars to go find the fields…20 minutes away with no traffic. But there was traffic. A giant motorcade of Harleys complemented by at least 20 undercover police cruisers began to cross the major Wilmington intersection just before we were set to pass through. In short, we got to the fields late. Practice was out of the question…so we played disc golf. The actual disc golf was kind of crappy, but we did catch a sweet spider at one point.
After about 14 weary, hungover holes we packed it up and headed back to the warm embrace of our beach bungalow. Bocce, frisbee, football, and general shenanigans commenced.

There was a hint of hope for a late day practice until we got word that only 3 more able-bodied Los-ers would be making the trek, bringing us up to a grand total of 11. Sad, but we wouldn’t let that deflate our sails. Serious slanging was the order of the day and we were up to the task.

Night fell and with it came a sense of calm. Nothing that a few margaritas between round of drinkball couldn’t fix!

Around 11 a few of us started to feel the sausage seeping into our pores. Unfortunately, only 4 could be mustered for a night on the town–Mike D, Ray, Johnny G, and myself. For reasons that I can’t reveal to the interwebs, it was proclaimed Mike D’s night. He wanted to drink his fears and miseries away, so we went with Irish Car Bombs, followed by Jager Bombs, followed by beers. Mat eventually caught up with us, but just in time for us to leave. The sausage was a factor even in the bar, and we were left to pursue the only surefire solution–a strip club. We were debating the $80 round trip cab fare to Wilmington when around the corner comes a gaggle of girls jabbering in outlandish South-speak. Ray slicked back his hair and went to work. We convinced them all to come back to the same bar with us and along the way found out that they were celebrating an imminent wedding. Bachelorette party = easy pickins. We made nice, corralled them into a corner booth, and bought them drinks (some of which ended up on my leg apparently).

It was at this point that someone brought up politics–specifically, the question of who to vote for. The hot girl with the brown V-neck dress and gold earrings (from hereon referred to as Thong Girl) proclaimed that McCain was the only choice. I begged to differ. She was appalled, as were several others in her coterie. I provided an adequate defense and she rebutted with something about Obama’s health care plan. She was a nursing student and seemed to feel strongly about it, so I decided to let it go for the time being. Mike D had other plans. “Kirkham, you’re a communist! You want to take away our freedoms! This pinko hates freedom!!”

After I calmed Mike down a bit I explained my position a bit more. This time, the rebuttal was not quite as nuanced. It was more…how shall we say…racist. “Well I just can’t vote for a black man. His name is OBAMA! His Dad was Muslim and his wife is a BITCH.” I probably should have been outraged at this point, but I was a few drinks in and she was pretty hot, so I tried to reason with her. “Well yes, he is black. His name is Obama. His father was not a Muslim. His wife may be a bitch, but unless you can provide substantial proof I’ll have to file your comment under S for superficial (and R for Racist while we’re at it). In fact, she works in health care just like you–she’s a hospital administrator.” Stymied, she batted her eyes and carried on as if nothing had happened.

Ray broke the tension by biting her ass.

Just before closing time we ordered a last round and sang along with the house band to a horrible rendition of “Simple Man.”
Eventually we all got kicked out and stumbled back toward Playa Casa de Los. Around 3 we burst into the door fully intending to wake up all of those healthy, wealthy, and wise. One quick round of SoCo, one leftover pizza and we were out the door headed to the girls’ place. The Sayre-McCords were game enough to follow.

Unfortunately the pictures end here because Ray was…preoccupied. Him and his girl high-tailed it to the beach and ripped off each others’ clothes in fits of passion. The rest of us soon followed which made for a hilarious scene. At that point the only thing to do was strip down and jump in the ocean. For the next 20 minutes I can only recall 2 sights: Mat’s bare bum and Thong Girl’s amazing ass.
Our thirst for cold ocean water quenched, we all dashed out of the water and back to the house. Thong Girl retreated to her inner sanctum and I was left out in the cold. I blame Mike D. Outside 6 of us sat around a table discussing the merits of smoking cigarettes. Then the conversation turned back to politics. And this time there was no beating around the bush. “I will not tolerate a n**** for president!” said the married kindergarten teacher. Once again, I was not as angry as I should have been. She said it so matter-of-factly. It was as if she fully expected me to agree even though I obviously hadn’t all night. Eventually we all gave up trying to talk sense into them and I think I left around 5:30 am. It was a night full of highs and lows, dreams and nightmares.
At this point it must be noted that Ray was the only one to successfully conquer one of the girls. All night she had seemed a little less opinionated than the rest, but upon waking in the morning, the first thing out of her mouth: “I just don’t think I can vote for a black man.” Totally unprompted. Wow. Ray will henceforth be known as “Ray-cist” (credit to JB for the clever moniker).