OK, so this is Friday night. We’re here telling jokes, singing songs, and performing skits; but we’re sober. It’s Friday night and we’re sober. It’s times like this that make me nostalgic of high school. In high school, if you were drunk it was probably Friday night; in college, if it’s Friday night you’re probably drunk.

I don’t know if there are any biblical scholars in the house, but today is technically the sixth day of creation. And what did God create on the sixth day? That’s right, God created man on the sixth day. Throughout the week he had already discovered the intricacies of barley, hops, and fermentation. Now, he just needed a drinking buddy. So, he created Adam, the munched on some corn nuts, and watched the game. Then God took the seventh day off; not because he was tired, but because he was hung over. It’s true; it’s in the Bible. Read it sometime.

I’ll tell you a story about a party I went to in high school. Where I come from all a party really consisted of was a keg and a cornfield. (Cheers from the crowd?) I see we have some Iowinians in the crowd. You’d just call up your friends, decide on a place to have it, and then I’d go to my girlfriend’s house, pick her up, and go. Well, in theory that’s what I’d do. My girlfriend, however, would take and hour and _ to get ready. For a barn party?! She actually called her friends to coordinate what she was wearing with them. After all, they gotta match. This is something you’d never see a guy do. Could you imagine that call? "Yo dawg, wassup? You going to the party tonight? Me too, cool. Hey, what are you gonna wear? Oh, your crappy old faded Tommy Hilfiger jeans and an oversized sweatshirt? Sounds good; I think I’ll wear the same. You gonna comb your hair? No, me neither. Wait! Most importantly, what shoes are you gonna wear? You’re crappy white Nikes? Sweet, see ya there." It’ll never happen; just as a woman getting ready for a party in less then an hour will never happen. Which doesn’t make sense when you consider it’s all in an effort for them to try to be sexy. What you women don’t understand is that you’re innately beautiful. Any one of you in the room right now would look better than any one of us in the same pair of crappy old and faded Tommy Hilfiger jeans and oversized sweatshirt. It’s time you realize it.

At the party I’m going to tell you about, however, my girlfriend did not attend it with me. No, she dumped me right before we left. But don’t feel bad for the Pookman, because when I go to the party I saw the most beautiful, most curvaceous thing I had ever seen: a bottle of Heineken. A bottle of Heineken is better than a woman in so many ways. It is. Think about it. A bottle of Heineken never has a wrong time of the month. It never claims to have a headache. It doesn’t get angry when you touch your lips to another bottle of Heineken. A bottle of Heineken is always wet. A bottle of Heineken, and this is even advertised, goes down easy. But, most importantly to me, a bottle of Heineken doesn’t wear a bra; cause I can’t work the motherfuckers. I don’t know many guys who can.

But I didn’t drink Heineken that whole night, because someone had brought to the party the Holy Grail of alcohol: tequila. Let me tell you a little story about tequila. I was sixteen and driving on an old country road with two friends when we pulled over and one of them handed me a bottle of tequila. I sipped it first because I had always seen in the movies and on TV when someone drank tequila they pulled away the glass as if their throat was on fire. My throat didn’t seem affected immediately, so them I hurled to bottle back and began to chug it. Many people don’t know this, but there’s a filter in your head located between your brain and your mouth that stops stupid things from coming out. It will stop you from telling your girlfriend that her ass is getting fat. It will stop you from telling your father that his ass is getting fat. But when you drink this filter becomes skewed or removed, and nothing stops you from saying something as soon it enters your head. I pulled the bottle back and thought, "that wasn’t so bad." But, instead of words leaving my mouth, a column of fire sprang forth and incinerated my best friend. The other guy with us was scared shitless. All I could think, since I was instantaneously drunk from just chugging a _ bottle of tequila, was "cool." And, of course, while I was thinking "cool" I was saying, "cool." And another column of fire shot from my mouth and killed my other friend. At this point I thought, "wow, I need to stop doing that." But while I was thinking it, I was saying it. However, another fiery geyser didn’t happen because I passed out and smacked my head on the pavement. I awoke three days later. I was naked, facedown in a ditch, in Arkansas. I hadn’t ever been in Arkansas before, but I knew it was Arkansas because I was surrounded by imbeds. Next to me laid a dyslexic hemophiliac hermaphroditic circus midget with my class ring on his ring finger. It is a day I won’t soon forget and rather dislike discussing.

Needless to say, tequila is my favorite drink. But the tequila at this particular party was no ordinary tequila. This was the god of all tequilas: Jose Cuervo. Jose Cuervo is not like other drinks such as Jack Daniel’s and traditional whiskeys. No, when Jack hit’s your stomach, he looks around and says, "Hey, Budweiser. Hey, Heineken. Hey, (stepping sideways)…Zima." But the all congregates and get along. Not Jose. Jose is an asshole, and each shot has it’s own personality. Alone they’re not that troublesome, but when they gather together and start plotting against you. This particular night I had had six shots of Jose. The leader of the group was, I’m pretty sure, the third one for he was a particularly nasty one to swallow. Image my stomach. "Jose, Jose, Jose, Jose, Jose, gather around." I’m from Iowa; I can’t do a Mexican accent. "Now look, see that guy in the corner? He’s been a bully to Pookman and kicking Pookman’s ass for 10 years. It would be very smart to stay away from that guy. So we’re gonna punch him in the face. Jose, you go keep the brain occupied."

"What’s that? Did I hear my name?"

"Brain this is matter of drunkenness, it does not concern you. Go think about what color a mirror is."

"Jose, keep him busy. Jose, you go up to the amygdala and inhibit all fear responses. Jose, go down to the hand a clench it into a fist. Jose, go up to the cerebral cortex and pull up every bad memory you can that involves this bully. Jose, you go down to kidneys and milk them, because after we knock this motherfucker out we’re gonna piss on his head! I’ll stay here in command? All systems go? Check. Engage."

I got and walked across the room and towards my adverary. There was no fear in me, my fists was clenched in rage thinking about all the times he had done bad by me, there wasn’t a thought in my head (except for some obscure question involving mirrors), and, most of all, I really had to pee. I approach him a said "Hey, asshole!"

He turned to me annoyed and said, "What?"

Jose cowered, and my fearlessness left me in a single second. I could only manage to mutter the few words, "How’s it going?" I remember a fist, then blackness, then staring up at the ceiling with all of my friends looking down at my bent and twisted body asking "Is he dead." No, I was not dead–obviously–for there was so much poison coursing through my veins that I could have been shot and never felt the pain from the bullet.

I then attempted to get drunker than I had ever been in my life. I was so drunk that at one point in the night I lost an argument regarding evolution to a piece of toast. I fell to ground several times grabbing clumps of earth in an attempt to keep from falling of the planet which was spinning too fast. That night a mosquito landed on my arm and I didn’t even care when it bit me. I said, "drink up, little buddy, that’s 40 proof hemoglobin you’re chugging!" After five minutes I thought he was getting a little fat, so I told him I think he had had enough. He said, "I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough." I brushed him off my arm anyway, though, and he flew away in quite a wobbly fashion. He went this way, then that way, then this way again. Then he hit a brick way in mid flight. And exploded. Just a further reminder not to drink and fly.

Now it was getting towards the end of the night and I saw across the crowd the ugliest girl I have yet to see in my short, happy life. I would never entertain the motion of having sex with this creature in a million years, if I were sober. I wasn’t sober, though, so I tried to pick her up. I made my way through the masses and I was rehearsing in my head what I would say. "Excuse me, but I saw you from across the room and couldn’t help but catch your glance. The orange specs of your iris danced within the limpid pools of blue in your eyes. Your name is Stephanie Smith, right? How did I know? Well, I doubt you remember, but 2 _ years ago we were casually introduced at a party. My father told me it was a most egregious sin to ever forget the name of a beautiful woman, and you, my dear, are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. Come with me. We shall discover new regions of ecstasy, learn new levels of intimacy; all in the back of my Ford Bronco." That’s what I wanted to say, but when I finally reached her all that came out was, "Wanna fuck?" Which would have never worked had she not been drunk also. But she was, and we proceeded to head back to my Bronco.

My brain was yelling out, "Noooo!" But Jose, who had a firm grip on my testicles, was crying out, "Areba! Areba! Adele! Adele!" "Nooo, pleas, nooo!" "Brain, I’d told you to stay out of this." "No more!" My brain took back control of my body at shut down all of the blood supply to little Pookman. It is a condition known in the medical community as "whiskey dick." And as disappointed as I was that night. I was so happy the next morning.

Speaking of the next morning; I woke up in my bed, which surprised me since when I left the party the night previous the parking lot was not where I had left it. It felt like I had eaten 50-60 sponges. My underwear was beside me on the bed; which scared me profoundly since my pants were still around my waste. My head then started to pound like no other; which was my brain’s way of saying, "don’t’ EVER fucking do that again, idiot." I went and got the biggest bowl of Captain Crunch I could and sat in front of the TV to watch Dragonball Z. After all, it was only 6 and _ days until the next Friday night.

Lights down.

"Friday Night" debuted January 26, 2001, performed by Pookman.

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