Sleep is generally complicated for me. If morning was encapsulated into a human shell, I'd tie the dawn fucker up with copper wire in a dank basement, connected to a sunshine sucking machine. The difference betwixt four or five hours of restless sleep isn't incredibly vast from two to three hours of restless sleep. So growling at the sunrise is fair trade off to have my nights free.

Even the stinky bloated carcass overnight shift that I will rotate into next month seems like a relief from the regularily scheduled evening shift that I have been saddled with. Anyone who has been paying attention to this documentation of freak life, knows that during my turn of a month of overnight duties twists my crazy straight the fuck out and open. Amusing it may be to read the stream of consciousness that flails from my synapses. Amusing it is not to gaze at it dead in the mirror everyday. Still, preferable to the evening shift.

Evening shift poo on stick.

Bounced out of here Saturday afternoon, jaunting down the street to Port Authority. Hooking up with the crew in the embryonic stage of the bachelor party. robotlou actually had the honor as best man to arrange the festivities. Hopefully attempts not to tread on his story telling toes will be successful. Hop on over to his page in the Diaryland universe for further details.

Port Authority is a wormhole in the center of Manhattan. Normal NYC physics and chemistry are skewed. Understood by all that this is the way life is. So much so that double takes aren't warranted when happening upon a 50's plastic sign announcing "Leisure Time. Cocktails! Bowling!" in the midst of bus terminals.

A smirking trend. Whenever the occasion has arisen to relay the size of my foot to a feminine stranger, I always get the smirk. "What size do you wear?" "Eleven and a half." Smirk. I have to believe its the whole half thing. Cause I've seen others ask for sizes larger than that and not receive the smirk. Maybe there is a powder room myth circulating throughout the chick populace about men with an eleven and a half shoe size. Eleven and a half men possess origami tongues. Probably the silliness of a half size strums up an internal girly tee hee, that manifests itself in a simple smirk.

Also its disturbing when a collection of geek freaks are unable to master the user interface of a bowling score program. The disturbing factor is imagining hamfisted hairy knuckled apes full of Pabst attempting to set up a bowling roster. The further disturbing factor would be the probable reality of feeling my kung-fu shrink as the same apes masterfully and gracefully utilise the interface like hacker conduits.

Bus time!

Bit of a disclaimer. Finn, the man who we were raising above our shoulders to celebrate his upcoming husband status, is from Mars. Finding a pair of strippers to female ejaculate on top of his head would surely embarass him. Embarassment surely a huge part of the point of bachelor parties. However, Finn just wouldn't appreciate any bottom of the fourth, scores tied, last minute hail mary execution of drippingly disgusting washes of soon to be unavailable poon tang. Regardless of what teeth marks and whip welts shine crimson on your body the next day, a bachelor party should be something you look back on with twisted fondness. If we had enacted the red light protocol, Finn would have been the only one not to look back in fondness.

So, we went to Medieval Times in Jersey. Thats correct, think back to the film The Cable Guy. "Red Knight's goin down, down down down."

I did enjoy myself. Mostly I think because I was goofing on the entire thing, and was a disturbing maniac force during all the festivities. Certain that security cameras were diverted to our section to strengthen the monitoring capabilites of our activities.

I personally wailed like a institutionalised barbarian fingering his own ass with both thumbs whenever my section's knight did anything valiant. And spewed ogre spittle flinging throat garbles, shaking my gnarled agonising hands in the air, whenever an opposing knight stepped forward. The child in the seat next to me was not amused. Cared not I did, continued to be freak I was.

Verily, tis a medieval setting, how canst thee expect silverware? For a moment I wished the lighting was brighter so I could see the half greasy chicken I was tearing into, and then thought better of it as the silhouettes of other diners were gruesome enough. This repast was not for the timid of stomach or eyes. Big ups to the hot and wet towlettes dispensed, they dost performed well in the fight against sticky fingers and smeared face.

The absolute best part of the evening was about to unfold. Our section's knight proved triumphant over all competitors. Apparently, whichever section of the auditorium wins, they get to have special announcements proclaimed regally by the king. So first, the knight goes and grabs a little girl celebrating her birthday, hoisted on her shoulder, taking seat on the throne. Then the king, in his most dramatic voice says "And Finn, don't forget on your wedding night to go to fifth base, whatever that means.". I discorporated with spastic laughter. I heard one child in the background ask his mother what fifth base was. I could barely breath. Even better that it was a complete surprise. Holy gourd, I couldn't believe that boomed from the sound system. Most excellent.