Buffalo hoofprints on my liver.

Last night, I decided to skip the gym - instead eating roughly 92 buffalo wings and drinking a gallon of beer. Why, you ask, did I do this on a Wednesday night? Well, I'm sort of a sucker for trivia and they had trivia night at this wing place called Pluckers. For some reason, my brain catalogues and compartmentalizes meaningless facts, quotes and tidbits, so I'm pretty good at trivia (if I do say so).

It started at 7:00, and Pluckers is on the other side of town, so I went right after work. The waitress let me know that "big Bud Lights" were $4. Well, who am I to pass up a special? The "big Bud Light" ended up being a 32 ounce mug of beer. And being that I hadn't eaten since lunch, I was drunk by the time my friends showed up. In fact, once the beer started flowing, it didn't take long for all of us to go from "sharp, coherent, sophisticated young adults" to "glassy-eyed, slurring, drooling baffoons."

At some point we were drunk and hungry enough to actually order something to eat. Since there were five of us, we went ahead and got 50 wings. That should be sufficient, right? Well, we drunkenly wolfed those down like we'd been stranded on the top of a mountain for six weeks. I swear I heard someone growl when I reached for one of their wings. So we sat back, fat and happy, took a sip of beer, looked at each other and said, "wanna get 50 more?" Good grief. So we got 50 more. And inhaled 50 more. If you're counting, that's 100 wings. Between five (eventually six) people. We're gluttons.

So we had two teams. You got extra points for funny names, so we brainstormed. Obviously the only thing funny in this world is sexual innuendo (for our hosts, anyway), so we ended up going with "Laguna Glory Hole" (a nod to Austin's Laguna Gloria) and...ahem..."Ole Trashmouth and Shitpussy." Terrific. (side note: the winning team name was "Beaver Deceivers." Lame.)

After eight rounds of trivia, 100 wings, 6000 ounces of beer, a broken mug from two overzealous "Cheers!"ers and a certain someone screaming "Sonny Bono!" and "in your face, bitches!" to the entire bar, we ended up tied with some assholes on the other side of the restaurant. Naturally, this led to a playoff. Playoff question? Oh no no no. They decided that each team would choose a representative for a mini-competitive eating showdown. The rules: eat five wings faster than the other guy. Easy, right? The wings they brought out were of the "burn a hole in your esophagus" variety. They were dark brown, they stunk, they were swimming in goo. Of course their guy was a meaty brawler in a soccer shirt. Our guy, Mike, had the lead three wings in, but the fact that he'd eaten 20 less than an hour earlier slowed him down. We lost, Mike took a shot of half and half to put out the fire, then promptly yacked all over the floor. That's what you get, Pluckers. That's what you get.

I did a little math this morning on the caloric content of last night's feast. I can't remember if I had four or five gigantic beers (the drive home was fun! I assume.), but with those plus the wings, we're looking at...counting....carry the one...anywhere between 2491 and 2777 calories! That's not even including the fries. And ranch. And blue cheese. I'm gonna go for a jog. See you tomorrow.

(side note: That's the only picture I could find of a 32 ounce draft beer. I have absolutely no idea who that guy is. I hope he's there next week.)