Tag Archives: Holiday

The Drunk Challenge

Spring break just happened. Seven days spent drinking seven years off my life. I may be in no state to write a blog post today thanks to my weeklong hangover, but by Jove…

I was going to end that sentence with an inspiring statement enumerating my reasons for slogging through the blogging, but I couldn’t think of any. Yet, like an energizer bunny with a keyboard instead of a drum and fingers instead of paws and no drumsticks to get in the way of typing, I continue, albeit with rapidly degrading metaphors.


The downward spiral of my functionality began, like with so many, on St. Patrick’s Day. I don’t have a very strong understanding of calendars and holidays, but I’m pretty sure there’s some powerful committee of politicians, scientists, watchmakers, and holiday mascots who all sit in a room and decide how they’re going to mess with people each year.

“Halloween shall fall on the least fun day of all, a Tuesday!” they cry. “And when it ought to land on a Saturday, we’ll ensure there’s a leap year, bumping it to Sunday and robbing college students everywhere of their scantily-clad celebration!”

“We shall schedule Yom Kippur for the day there’s that drunk driving presentation at high schools, and none of the Jewish kids will be forced to sit through the boring and ineffective scare tactics, thus infuriating children of all other religions!” they cackle. “And most importantly, this year, when Russ is about to have the craziest spring break ever, we will put St. Patrick’s Day on the Saturday that kicks it all off to ensure that he never gets any sleep ever again.”

I think it’s something like that. Now, on St. Patrick’s Day in San Luis Obispo, the tradition is to arrive at your first bar around 6 a.m. for a breakfast of Irish Car Bombs. I have a terrible time waking up in the morning, so obviously I had to pull an all-nighter to guarantee I made it. And then we drank all day, hopping from bar to bar forcing green-colored drinks down our throats, most of which contained Bailey’s Irish Cream or potatoes.

I finally passed out on my couch at 3:35 a.m. the next day and got a full 4 hours of sleep before my fraternity brothers barged through the door screaming things about San Diego and how I had to pack right now and drive 5 hours south no matter how dangerous that might be because I was going to miss the Clippers game and we’d already paid and they’d called me 8 bajillion times but I wasn’t answering and it was going to be the best bonding experience ever and—

The point of this whole story is kayaking. I know that probably hasn’t been obvious so far, but my brain is barely functioning, so every combination of words sounds like sheer brilliance to me until I reread it and find out it says “There was a cat lot of mulching to be deluged before picnic basket.”

Anyway, for spring break I stayed in a multi-million-dollar beach-front 1970s-style sex grotto mansion that my cousin’s friend’s girlfriend had shadily procured, most likely from a washed up rock star through Craigslist. We lovingly referred to it as the “Rage Palace.” The Rage Palace rested at the top of a cliff overlooking a beautiful beach and slept 18 people (in beds, which is like 40 people in spring break–floor sleeping units). It had clearly done too many heavy drugs in its youth and was now in a bit of disrepair—perfect for a bunch of rowdy college kids. The centerpiece of the erstwhile porn set was a giant, penis-esque fireplace located smack-dab in the middle of the main room, and surrounding the back half of this once-virile hearth was a weird glass chamber filled with clam shells. Extensive investigation into this phallic and yonic fever-dream of architecture revealed that the clam chamber was some sort of group shower or maybe just an enterable waterfall. Either way, its only remaining resident was a stuffed Toucan hung from the ceiling by its beak in a climbing position, a creature perpetually caught in the process of ascension.

Outside in the back was a gargantuan balcony precariously balanced on a cliff that had eroded away underneath the support pillars to the point that you had no idea how it all remained suspended in the air. From there you could see a huge stretch of beautiful Mission Beach, a veritable paradise, and for a scant few days, our personal playground. On this balcony were a pool, a hot tub, and a whole bunch of chairs, and the entire place was surrounded by a drunk-proof glass wall that came up to your waist. It was a wonderful place to drink, and drink, and drink.

But drinking has its downsides, like causing a complete inability to perform tasks. It took 4 people an hour to set up a volleyball net, and at the end of the hour, they only succeeded by giving up. We even made a game out of our lack of skill, cleverly titled “The Drunk Challenge.” You see, the Rage Palace came with one of those big plastic ocean kayaks, but the thing was ungodly heavy, so even with the combined strength of four strapping lads, we could barely lift it off the ground. Unable to get the plastic monstrosity to the ocean, we settled for the pool, dumping it unceremoniously into its week-long home, where it became the impetus for The Drunk Challenge.

The Drunk Challenge consisted of lining up the kayak so that it was parallel to one end of the pool, stepping onto the precarious death-trap (the whole thing had to be done standing up, straddling the seat sideways with your legs), turning it 90 degrees using the long kayak paddle, paddling it across the pool in a swaying battle for your life, ramming it head-on against the opposite wall, doing a full 180 that at any point could lead you to falling and smacking your head into concrete, paddling it back with frayed nerves, and dismounting, all while completely sloshed. The kayak was only about a foot shorter than the width of the pool, so you had to do something like a 7-point turn to redirect it. In order to balance, you had to keep your legs bent the whole time, so by about halfway your calves would be aflame with drunken regret.

And when you inevitably crashed into the water, the cold surge of failure would rush into your nostrils and you’d realize that pools seem a lot less warm at 3 in the morning.

One night, the time came for me to make my attempt. According to the judges (anyone who had completed the challenge previously), I hadn’t ever been sufficiently drunk before, but now I was fully qualified. After watching someone splash into the pool mere seconds into the challenge, I sprinted to the kayak, stripped to my underwear, and mounted it…in a strictly platonic way.

For some reason, the majority of our crew came outside to watch (and I’m pretty sure one of them filmed the whole thing. That’s going to come back to bite me). They were all enthusiastic spectators, whether cheering me on or shouting distracting vulgarities, but nothing could break my steel resolve. I turned the kayak, paddle waving unsteadily in my hands. I stuck it tentatively into the water, swaying dangerously close to failure—and immediately failed, splashing into the pool. But I wasn’t finished!

I leapt out and remounted, this time even more focused. Paddle in hand, I began to turn the tilting behemoth beneath my feet. Slowly, ever so slowly, I made my way to the other side, rammed the wall, and turned around. My legs burned with the effort, my arms shook with the cold, my brain pounded with the alcohol. And I still had to make it all the way back!

It took me 5 and a half minutes to complete The Drunk Challenge, but by god I did it. And after dismounting, I raised my paddle into the air, reveling in my victory, even if I was soaking wet and shivering, underwear clinging unflatteringly to my shriveled junk in front of my friends and that girl I’d been attempting to seduce. For the next half hour, I loudly proclaimed to anyone who would listen that it was the proudest moment of my life. Who knows? Maybe it was.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of The Saga of Spring Break, in which I wage glorious war with a flock of angry seagulls.


Filed under Stories

The 8 Types of Annoying Relative (And Tips to Help You Avoid Them)

Disclaimer: Let it be known that this has nothing to do with my relatives. Those guys are awesome! (Oh, and if you don’t enjoy reading words, click here to skip ahead to the pictorial guide)

It’s that time of year again, when bundles of joy are placed beneath the tree, then later remembered and transferred to their cribs, when mice stop stirring throughout the house in adherence to the laws of Christmas, and when breaking and entering becomes an offense not punishable by jail time, but by milk and cookies.

But when Christmas rolls around, so too do the requisite family gatherings, events which unfortunately involve your family. Most relatives are as pleasant as you are, but if you’ve taken Biology, then you know that genes sometimes do stuff, and in their constant mutation, bad seeds take root, growing eventually into bad apples that fall far from the tree and are very much not of my eye.

To help you navigate the dangers of the family-infested holidays, we here at Reasonably Ludicrous have created a list of the 8 types of annoying relative, accompanied by battle-tested tips guaranteed to help you avoid them. Never go into another mandatory holiday gathering blind!


Attack: Bestowing Wisdom

Usually retired, The Advisor spends most of his time enjoying his many hobbies, which range from fly-fishing in the frigid rapids of Yosemite to memorizing trivia so that he can more effectively play along to reruns of Jeopardy. Having led a full life of success and happiness, he worries that you’re skittering down a dangerous slope, and that he may be the only belaying rope left to keep you from crashing to the ground in a heap of debt and drug use. The Advisor will lure you in with a question about your current state of affairs, though he is already well aware, and upon explaining that you’re trying to be a writer, he’ll give you a pat on the back, saying  he’s happy that you’re trying something unconventional, but it’s time you found a career and a good woman. To soften the blow, he’ll tell you not to worry, adding that you haven’t made any mistakes thus far, because mistakes are just “lessons in disguise!”

Defense: Wear a Suit

The Advisor knows the truth about the world, and your personal—and thus wrong—opinions mean little to him. Defending your liberal arts degree and pursuits of passion will only make him pity you further, and his kind heart will never allow him to let such a sorry case back into the world without being properly spoon-fed the rehabilitating mush of hard-earned wisdom. The most effective way to parry his assaults is by donning fine attire. Like the humans of the future in the Skynet timestream, The Advisor is easily deceived by appearances, and a simple suit will prevent him from seeing you for the synthetic-skinned failure-machine you truly are. In his eyes, anyone who has outgrown his flip flop stage is clearly on the right track, and The Advisor will quickly commend you for finally becoming a man, then move on to other targets.


Attack: Putrid Flesh, Uncomfortable Hugs, & Expired Candy

Madame Wrinkles is the oldest member of the family, and despite having lost most of her faculties, she’s still going strong, and, unfortunately, shows no signs of letting up. She never washes, and the smell of old person exudes in a five foot radius. Avoid eye contact at all costs, for the moment your eyes lock, she will surge forward with uncanny speed, crushing you in an overly lengthy hug that forces you into the heart of her stench. She will pinch your cheek with the icy fingers of death, and the second you open your mouth to protest, she will force a ten-year-expired butterscotch candy into it. Once free from her grasp, back away slowly, nodding as if you are still listening to her unintelligible ramblings. Because of her bad vision, she will be unable to notice the increasing distance between you as she suggests for the nth time that you hook up with the hottie in the corner, having long forgotten that the two of you are first cousins.

Defense: Fake a Disease

Madame Wrinkles is about one germ away from turning to dust, so another relative will have been appointed as her personal guard for this event, making sure she interacts with no one who shows even the most minor signs of sickness. Spend the party coughing and you won’t be allowed to come anywhere near her! Or, if you dislike throat pain and accidentally causing cool relatives to avoid you, as a more subtle alternative, you can joke about the fun ways you hope the huge quantities of alcohol you’re consuming will interact with your antibiotics!


Attack: Being Holier Than Thou

The Ascetic just recently gave up drugs and alcohol after the most fun and irresponsible thirty-five years of his life. In fact, he has given up all sins, instead turning to Bikram Yoga, tea, and meditation. He has most likely become religious, though more often than not this will manifest itself in the form of a nudist cult praising the unknowable energy of a certain species of fern rather than any of the more recognizable theologies. One tenet of this cult is recruiting as many followers as possible, and The Ascetic will spend this holiday party convincing you of the error of your ways. As a high-functioning alcoholic, you will find this particularly grating, and The Ascetic’s honest good intentions will only infuriate you further.

Defense: Join a Cult

As you find yourself becoming convinced by The Ascetic’s charm, zeal, and genuine happiness (how can anyone be happy without alcohol?), you’ll know it’s time to enact your plan. Before the main holiday event, you must join some sort of strange cult, especially one that provides members with proof of entry, by say, giving you a laminated name badge or perhaps burning their holy symbol into your flesh with a red-hot branding iron. When The Ascetic corners you, smile pleasantly, and the moment he takes a breath, launch into a spiel about the benefits of your cult. Use every trick the cult leader taught you to persuade him to join, from pleading to threats to offers of free brandings, and within moments he’ll go running, sure that Flurhhooven, the spirit of photosynthesis, growth, and personal change is testing his devotion.


Attack: BABIES!

The Baby Pusher has given birth very recently, and her world now revolves around the squirming hazard-in-waiting strapped to her chest. Immersed in the throes of pure love and the miracle of life, The Baby Pusher will want to share her most profound emotional experience with everyone she knows. It doesn’t matter that you have no idea how to care for children, and the fact that frankly, they scare you, is of little relevance. The Baby Pusher will force you to hold the creature, and more fighteningly, to love it. Though on the outside she appears unrelentingly happy, you can’t help but wonder if it’s a façade, that, if after months of constant exhaustion, she’s simply trying to pawn off the fleshy creature in the hopes of a brief respite in which she can longingly imagine life before “the child.”

Defense: A Sling

No. Not for firing pebbles at the tiny human in a reverse David and Goliath scenario. Remember when you snapped your forearm that one time you tried skateboarding before swearing it off as the devil’s sport? Time to break out that sling. When The Baby Pusher asks you what happened, say it’s nothing—you’re involved in accidents all the time! In fact, you joke, the most ridiculous one of all was when were holding your family friend’s small child and accidentally dropped it. Ruminate, seemingly to yourself, about whether or not that’s related to the fact that poor Johnny’s had a lisp ever since. The Baby Pusher will recoil in fear and keep her child as far away from you as possible.


Attack: Tales of Recent Accomplishments

Often gainfully employed, usually as a doctor or lawyer, The Blowhard will one-up you with stories both trite and extravagant, from tales of his wife’s recent appointment as head of the PTA to his journeys to exotic countries where he rode dolphins whilst eating caviar. His children have either finished or are currently attending University. The older one is likely to have completed a tour with the Peace Corps, and though The Blowhard is somewhat disapproving of humanitarianism, he appreciates his eldest child’s go-get-em attitude, and is reassured by the fact that said child will be attending law or medical school in the upcoming fall. “What is it you’re doing again?” he asks, only half interested, and upon hearing that your blog is enjoying moderate success, you see in his eyes his negative assessment of you, for you’re neither changing the world nor exploiting it, the only two endeavors of any worth. He advises you to consider a career change, then launches into a bombastic recounting of his fulfilling life.

Defense: Puff his Ego to Blimpish Proportions

When trapped in conversation with The Blowhard, you must endure at least one quick story before any effective action can be taken. As he spins a not-so-charming tale of his resourcefulness, like how he outwitted an IQ test or used his medical knowledge to save an unconscious victim on a plane, you must ooh and ahh appropriately, expressing fear and delight at all the right moments. The Blowhard will be lulled into a false sense of security, and once the story has ended, he will look for some sort of praise. And that’s exactly what you’ll give him. More than he’s ever gotten before! You must act as if you have in fact had a revelation, that his bragging has opened up a new world of possibility to you, that this very conversation has Changed. Your. Life! You must immediately proclaim that you wish to someday be as great as The Blowhard, and that you need to write down your new resolution before it leaves you. Flee.


Attack: Magnificence!

The Magnificent is probably only a year or two older than you, proving that if you didn’t waste your life trying to be a writer, you might actually be able to make something of yourself. He’s most likely just completed another world tour, paying his way as a professional snowboarder. Whenever he’s not competing in the Olympics or being the lead singer in a band or enjoying his fame as the star of an obscure sports team, he’s climbing mountains, visiting the Taj Mahal, and boning his incredibly hot girlfriend. She’s a different one from last year—probably the hottest yet. She’s fun, too. And you can’t even hate him cause he’s such a nice guy!

Defense: There is No Defense Against Magnificence

You’ve tried paying a beautiful girl to pretend to be your girlfriend. You’ve photoshopped yourself onto mountaintops and in front of notable monuments. You’ve even tried to compete in the X-games, only to find that your bones were surprisingly crushable. Nothing works. The Magnificent is always genuinely supportive of your endeavors, from your blog to that one time you tried to open a falafel stand, not realizing that that particular street corner was run by the mob. Even his girlfriends have always been nice to you, and The Magnificent gets you free tickets to all sorts of cool sporting events. Why? Why can’t you be him?


Attack: Pointless Stories, Prying into Your Personal Life, and Rumor Mongering

The aunt everyone tries to avoid, The Gossip uses her bubbly joviality to pin down her prey, and once you’ve fallen into the trap, she’ll act as though the two of you are in on something together. Don’t be fooled! The Gossip has no allies. She will inquire about your love life, and when you report that it is pointedly non-existent, she will cluck knowingly, and the twinkle in her eye means word of your failure as a sexual specimen will spread to the farthest reaches of your circle of acquaintances. When she asks about your job and  you explain that you don’t have one, per se, she will chide you with a half-hearted tsk that indicates the news will spread, inaccurately. Amidst friendly bouts of prying, she will attempt to tell you every detail imaginable about your other family members, unaware that you’ve spent the whole event trying to dodge those very people for fear they’ll tell you about themselves!

Defense: Profuse Winking

The Gossip is a fast talker, rendering words an ineffective strategy for escape. Instead, you must rely on body language, and there’s nothing The Gossip enjoys more than a conspiratorial wink. Lean in close, for this indicates the two of you share a profound secret. It is important that The Gossip think others in the room are filled with jealousy at seeing how connected the two of you are, so make it overt. Once you’re good and close, wink rapidly and without limit. The Gossip will laugh nervously at the inside joke she assumes you share and send you on a mission to gather juicy intelligence. Do not return.


Attack: Politics

The Politician never goes anywhere without an agenda. She firmly believes in every policy you think is ruining the world and strongly supports the candidate you want to murder with your bare hands. The fact that you don’t have a job makes you The Politician’s enemy, for it’s people like you who are destroying this country and helping the terrorists win. No matter The Politician’s beliefs, you distinctly do not want to get involved, for you actively attempt to learn as little as possible about the current state of the world. Death tolls and rampant hunger are less fun reruns of The Simpsons, but try as you might to avoid the trap, you will find yourself outmatched, for The Politician spends her life learning how best to bait people into unpleasant conversation and will deftly turn every topic to politics through subtle manipulation or loud yelling.

Defense: Inappropriate Laughter

The Politician’s powers are strong, and the only way to defeat her is to treat all of her heavy conversation topics as silly jokes. Whenever she mentions the dire state of the economy, chortle as though she’s made a clever quip. When she attempts to turn the conversation to the upcoming debate, guffaw as though she’s just spilled something on herself. Follow your laughter by repeating her comment, then adding, “Good one!” Before she has a chance to recover, launch into whatever story pops into your head no matter how irrelevant or embarrassing. Your inappropriate responses will undermine her fervor, making her arguments seem petty, and when you accidentally follow-up with a tale about your failed sexual exploits as a high-schooler, the pity and discomfort everyone feels is sure to lead to a change of topic.


There you have it! We hope you’ve found our handy-dandy Guide to the Holidays to be as handy-dandy as we intended. Next time you’re trapped at one of those nauseatingly innocuous Holiday Events, try out a few of these methods! If you’re feeling extra charitable, leave us a comment detailing how it went, because we certainly haven’t tried them! And for those of you non-readers or regular folks who are simply in a hurry, here’s a condensed pictorial guide for your relative-avoiding pleasure.

Click for Full Size:

Merry Christmas!


Filed under Observations

You Have No Idea What’s in Store

But if you click this link, you’ll find out!

That’s right! In the name of Christmas, Consumerism, and Feeding Ourselves, we’ve sold out to the all-powerful Zazzle, crafting for your purchasing pleasure such wonderful items as the fabled PUN shirt and probably some other stuff, too. I slapped them together around 7am by appropriating Sam’s artwork without permission, then promptly fell asleep, so I make no promises concerning the quality of whatever enticing items you may find over there.

I’d like to say the whole thing was my idea, but mostly I just saw perennial teammates, nemeses, and competitors Peas & Cougars and Live Nerd Repeat do it, and like a gangster of the blogging world, I wanted a piece o’ the action. I witnessed the glory of their creations and decided it was time that I, too, made you an offer you couldn’t refuse, but instead of it being because of the threat of death, it’s thanks to the low, low prices! They’re not really that low—apparently orange shirts are ungodly expensive for some reason. I can only assume that the dye was squeezed from the wings of monarch butterflies with diamond-crusted wing-clamps wielded by a veritable army of elves cloaked in the hides of giant pandas.

When my imagination thinks rarity, it obviously goes to a very dark place that seems to be rather dangerous for animals.

Anyway, that whole cop week thing was an exhausting experiment for all of us. Nobody wants to read that much of my writing, especially me, so this is our post for this week, and we’ll come back in full force on December 20th with a holiday post that will knock your stockings off, and, if you attempt to rehang them over the mantel, will knock them off again.

If for some crazy reason you do decide to throw away your hard-earned money on novel trinkets of little use, keep in mind that because of our laziness, you only have like 72 hours before the satellite countdown reaches zero and the aliens attack, Frank Miller rides into town, lightning strikes the clock tower, the bus runs out of fuel and drops below 50 mph, and shipments will no longer arrive in time for Christmas.

So give into the madness quickly, cause this train is about to leave the station, and you won’t be able to get on board until the next stop, which is as far away as the distance of simile, and that, my friends, is like traveling to Andromeda by ladder.


Filed under Administrative