Fixed-Beer

This weekend overflowed with buffoonery as our house became packed with bodies anxiously awaiting the final race of Super Week, Downer Ave.

The concept of a “cookout” was morphed into a ridiculous display of drunken biker shenanigans, and much of the food became decorative carpet art. And face art.

At least the dogs ate well.

Bitches be hungry

After consuming large quantities of unstable beverages, we proceeded to do the next logical thing. Bike to the race. Because bikers generally like to be slapped around a little, we berated the riders, but then handed them beers.

Victory in bottle form.

Ugliest. Jersey. Ever.

Cale drunkenly persuaded more people to arrive at our house where larger quantities of carpet art would be created.

The power of persuasion

Then there was the Malort.

For those of you not familiar, Malort is a liqueur of sorts, or some sort of death serum (I forget which).

On the bottle, next to the impending doom warnings, are factoids about the beverage indicating that only 1 in 14 men will actually make it past the first sip.

Not listed on the label was the fact that 3 bikers can indeed down an entire bottle.

With some consequences.

Consequences

Malort Face

Perhaps the oddest part of the night for me was when I stood in line at the Port-o-John after the race behind one of the racers. After he went into the toilet, the whole thing began to rock back and forth. When he came out, he threw me a somber glance.

“Sometimes bikers get lonely,” he said.

[callie].