Five things I learned at the Bottled Sports Weekend Retreat

This was barely a retreat but as I got home Sunday afternoon I thought to myself, “Holy shit, the founder of Bottled Sports, two former social media pea brains and Podcast Pumba were all under the same roof for two nights and three days this past weekend.” It wasn’t meant to be a retreat and honestly the word retreat sounds so Catholic Church campish that I need to find a new word for the three day gathering. But there we were. G-Train and Roach Clip along with another buddy of ours braved the April Minnesota Snow Storm and made it to my lady’s cabin Friday evening near the North Dakota/Minnesota border. It’s nice to get out of the city of Fargo for a weekend and drink with friends in a town of 460 people. You wanna talk about being judge? My goodness we will get into that later. There was seven of us staying at the cabin for the weekend and we had zero agenda and zero clue what we were going to do until we got a little liquor in us. Here’s five things I learned at the Bottled Sports Unplanned Weekend Getaway:

1.. Day drinking is a fukn rough activity

I’m all for cracking a Busch Light at 8 a.m. and staying up until 2 a.m. but damn it’s tough. I’ve aged three years since my drinking prime. Couple morning beers, couple bloodies and a couple mimosa’s and you’re tanked by noon. Shit 12 more hours of drinking. You’re a dead man. First rule of day drinking is do not I repeat do not let anyone mix your drink unless you’re at a bar. I get a lot of shit tossed at me because I’m a great bartender for two or three drinks for my friends but that fourth drink is game over for you. 75 % liquor, 10 % whatever mix they asked for and then 15 % whatever the hell else I find in the kitchen. I was topping mimosa’s off with Powerade for the hommies this past weekend and they couldn’t tell the difference between that and Sprite. Don’t make the mistakes the other Bottled Sports employees make and have me make your drink. You might not even make it outta brunch.

2.. I’m in the middle of nowhere, I don’t need drinking police

I’ve done some questionable things with the devil’s juice inside me. I’m sorry. Especially to my mother because I think she reads my blogs. She is supportive of this questionable content. I think. But I don’t need anyone telling me when I need to slow down my drinking when I’m on a weekend get away. If I want to wake up with a stage five hangover (Also — I don’t get hangovers — Double Also — knock on wood) let me wake up with a stage five hangover. Let me mix and match different whiskey or vodka. When else am I supposed to experiment? My friends are wonderful. Usually in a group like this someone will keep an eye out for everyone but we aren’t at the clubs and we ain’t at the fukn bars. We are at a lake cabin where the neighbors aren’t even brave enough to spend a weekend away from the kids in the winter snow storm. I never be able to say thank enough for the things my friends have and will do for me but leave me the fuk alone when the only thing that might get me in trouble falling through eight inches of ice.

3.. Getting judged at the local bar is the most awkward encounter in the land of encounters

Bar’s should be welcoming. I’m in your junky town of 500 people where there’s some cousins married to their cousins just down the road. The least you can do is make me feel welcomed. If seven 23 to 25 year olds step one fukn foot in your bar, you better be pulling out all the bell’s and whistles because we are gonna spend money that we don’t even have. We sat in a round table near the back of the town’s Legion bar. Our group probably made up at least half of the patrons in the place. And we just stink eye after stink eye that I’m honestly worried I might have pink eye. Mechanic Bob was giving us looks, Bingo Betty was pissed more people had showed up to steal her Bingo prices and Patricia Popcorn was pissed that she had to make more salty popcorn every five minutes. Fuk you Patricia we were hungry.

4.. DJ’ing is a lose/lose type of job

When I’m in the party mood I want hip-hop music, I want ignorant rap music, I want music that pumps me up to drink a vodka shot with no chase. Half of the Bottled Sports crew and my lady friend and her best friend like country. I have no problem with country music when I’m driving down a gravel road with the sun set in my mirror and an PBR in my cup holder. I was DJ’ing most of the weekend and I couldn’t find a happy medium. I was jamming with Pumba while Migos jumped outta the speaker but then the other half of our party was in the kitchen talking about fixing trucks and fukn cousins. So, I would switch the music like any good DJ would to comfort all crowds. But Pumba would get pissed. And honestly I can’t DJ correctly if the lyrics coming outta the boom box are “Becky was a beauty from south Alabama / Her daddy had a heart like a nine-pound hammer”.” I get everyone drums to different tunes but man, DJ’ing is a lose/lose job. Four people are happy, song switches and four people are yelling for change. Honestly, DJ’ing and being President of the United States are pretty similar jobs. You just don’t get blowjobs while you DJ.

5.. Never stray away from the party

There were things I missed during the gathering while I was being the best bartender south of Canada. I missed someone take a tumble and take out the beer pong table and every cup on it. Never needed life alert but damn that someone could’ve used it. Watching a male or female fall is pretty funny. However, I wasn’t there to see it. I wasn’t there to see that someone take his/her second fall of the night because I was being a top notch DJ. Then that someone dropped a full Coors Light out of nowhere. Like how the hell you don’t have good enough handles to keep a full beer off the floor. I’m starting to realize that the 5th thing I learned at the Bottled Sports (Unplanned) Retreat is that that someone losses his shit when he’s drunk. Then when it was time to go to bed him/her jumped in bed, crossed their arms and slept like they were in a coffin. God please. Never leave the party. You’ll miss too much. The last thing you want is your hommies talking about the Bottled Sports gathering weeks down the road and you not remember any of it. Not because you were shit canned but because you were BUSY in the other room.

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