So I hosted my first ever Super Bowl party at mi casa this past Sunday. What I thought would be a fun little get together with some close friends turned into a Jeney-drank-way-more-than-she-should-have-and made-a-complete-ass-out-of-herself kind of night.
I was one of about two and half people actually rooting for the Saints. Most of the people who attended my party were actually Vikings fans and felt a bitter hatred towards the team that thwarted poor, old man Favre from retiring* with another Super Bowl ring. So everyone else was rooting for Manning and the boys in blue.
Voice of God was one of them.
As a result of the game not going exactly the way he wanted, Voice of God kept walking out of the apartment to roam the hallways cursing. Every time he did this I locked the door
because I'm an obnoxious little shit because I thought it was funny.
Voice of God did not agree with my sense of humor.
This was after the fourth time I had locked him out.
After about the eighth or ninth time I locked him out, he felt the only proper punishment was to throw me over his shoulders helicopter style and began to spin me around like I was a rag doll.
I, being as intoxicated as I was, clutched to Voice of God with everything I had in me hoping and praying that I wouldn't hit my head on the wall/vomit/fall off him mid-spin.
Awful, terrible, bad idea, folks.
Once he stopped spinning and started to let me down, my Vulcan death grip on his shoulders caused all 290 lbs of him to start tipping over as well. This left him with two options. Neither of which would end well for me...
1) Continue tipping over with my momentum and fall on top of me risking the possibility of breaking my arm, cracking my ribs, and/or snapping my neck.
2) Just dropping me and hoping I don't land on something crucial.
Well, kiddos. Voice of God decided to drop me six feet and four inches on to our hard, cold, poorly carpeted floor.
Luckily, I only landed square and directly on my noggin rather than on some other more important body part like my hip or shoulder.
I woke up Monday morning with a headache that would have crippled Sasquatch and I still can't wash my hair without wincing.
There is no long, entertaining story behind this one. I simply danced like a damn fool when the clock hit 0:00 and the Saints had a larger number in their score box. I have no idea if this behavior was caused by Coors Light or my quasi-not-really concussion.
The moral of this story, kids, is that one should not lock one's very large, strong, and irate roommate out of the apartment. One should especially not do this repeatedly. You'll end up ass over elbows.
And celebrating a win like you ride the short bus when there are cameras around isn't such a good idea either.