Last Dance at the Ranch

[Dear Booze]

PART V
The Final Round

Once Dennis was safe inside his own room, Steve and I headed back to our own cabin to continue our night of drinking.

We sat on the front porch and started in on our first cocktails. A night of outdoor drinking couldn’t have been more perfect. The weather was great, the drinks were strong and there was no one around to bother us.

As we finished our first round of cocktails, we realized that the drama with Dennis had a negative effect on our level of drunkenness. We needed to catch up.

Two, three, four drinks later, we were almost there. I recognized this because we were both starting to laugh at really stupid shit. And the shit was becoming more and more stupid. Just dumb ideas and thoughts and observations. And then, we came up with a brilliant one.

“Dennis’ window is still open,” I told Steve. “I couldn’t get it closed when I broke into his place. Why don’t we go sneak in there and scare the shit out of him?”

“That could be a really bad idea,” Steve said, “What if the guy has a gun or something and freaks out and kills us?”

“Good point. Let’s walk over there and check it out.”

We walked along a little path which connects all of the cottages together. It was pitch dark, but the path is lined by bright solar lights.

When we got to cabin 117, I whispered to Steve, “Let’s wake him up.” Then I picked up the window screen that I had removed from the window earlier and through it through the window. I was hoping that it would knock over a lamp or something, but it just disappeared into the darkness of Dennis’ cabin.

“That’s no way to wake him up.” Steve said to me with a silly tone that meant step aside, little boy, let the grown-ups take care of the real work.

I watched as he walked back to the foot path and pull two of the solar lights out of the ground, then return to the window and flung them as hard as he could into the cabin. Two things happened. First, they made a shit load of noise. Second it completely illuminated the inside of the cabin’s living room and kitchenette. It was cool.

We started giggling like little kids and ran back to our own cabin to do some more drinking.

After another drink or two, I decided to pick up all of our empty bottles and any other trash that I could carry and throw that through Dennis’ window too.

A few minutes later, Steve disappeared down the path toward cabin 117, only return a few minutes later laughing like a lunatic.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Well, I had decided to try to take a piss through Dennis’ window but couldn’t find anything high enough to sand on. Fucking thing is five feet off the ground! So, I just grabbed a bunch of sticks and weeds and tossed them through the window.”

Jesus, I wish Steve wouldn’t have brought up the idea of pissing through the window, because now we both really wanted to make it happen.

Finally, when we were both to the point where we were barely able to speak English and/or walk, we came up with a plan.

We took the little Rubbermaid trash can from under the sink in our cabin and carried it down the path to cabin 117. We set it on the ground and both took turns pissing into it. When it was as full as we could get it, Steve lifted it up and poured it through the window, onto the living room carpet.






We were both startled awake by someone knocking loudly on our door. I hadn’t made it to bed the night before and was still lying in the hallway. Steve was leaning backwards on the couch, passed out. Who was it going to be? Dennis? Tom? A security guard? The cops?

Oh fuck.

I opened the door to find a maid wondering when we would be checking out.

Relief

We straightened up the place as best we could manage, threw our shit in bags and into the ice chest and hauled it all out to my car. And within fifteen minutes, we were heading home.

It was the end of an era and the death of an old friend, rolled into one.

But, how is cool is that? Even if Stevinson Ranch wasn't closing, we were both pretty sure that we would never be allowed to come back. We walked across the bridge and threw a lit Zippo over our shoulders.

It was fun.

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Boom.

Hell of a way to end a truly marvelous tale, mon ami.


Yes indeed.



.

[Dear Booze]

Boom.

Hell of a way to end a truly marvelous tale, mon ami.


Yes indeed.



.

And it was a hell of a way to say goodbye. True drunkard style.

[Dear Booze]

Before it finally gets completely bulldozed, may I suggest that you follow the example set by Arthur "Harpo" Marks*? To whit, extremely early one bright morning, you take: a couple or relevant clubs, a load of golf balls and a shed-load of booze to a fairly remote but easy 3-par hole. Strip off completely and become the only person to haver ever scored a "hole-in-one" on that couree, whilst completely naked (you are, of course, allowed to keep on your Golf Shoes, for both grip, stance and to prevent you from treading in anything nasty).

This is a great idea. Too bad I didn't know about it before I went. There is a nice 160 yard par 3 just a short walk from the cottages.

There’s plenty of time though. And I have a feeling that this wasn't the last opportunity to be drunk on a golf course.

[oettinger]

“What did you do?” I asked.

I knew it and cheered for it to happen!
Great story.
Prosit

[Dear Booze]

“What did you do?” I asked.

I knew it and cheered for it to happen!
Great story.
Prosit

Yep. Get me good and liquored up and shit either gets broken, or pissed on. Sometimes both.

Some call it a fault. I call it funny.