Hey motherfuckers- I bet you’re pretty flummoxed that my column is on a Monday and not a Tuesday, as promised by my actions as well as the title of this column. I bet y’all are quizzically murmuring to yourselves in your dark, cavernous, tastefully decorated rooms wondering, “Is she crazy?”
Short answer: Yes.
The long answer: Also yes.
You see, I’m reporting from Wisconsin (as often I do) and by the grace of god (and drunk) go I. Why have I been perpetually wasted for the past 48 hours? Well, an old fisherman once told me, when Leibs get hitched, shit goes down. And that fucking fisherman is CORRECT. My cousin got married this weekend, so NATURALLY a lot of drunk, Jewwy angst was let loose on the sleepy, God-fearing town of Carmel, Indiana, where my cousin’s bride is from.
Carmel, Indiana Not Actually Pictured Here
I get in on a red eye to Wisconsin around 8 am, grab two bloody marys at the airport (2 fucking fifty? It would be a crime if I DIDN’T) and get picked up by my parents. I’m wedged between my uncle and my unshowered brother so naturally I have to drink a little bit more from my tin flask I smuggled through in my carry-on. We drive through the beautiful, flat fall countryside and I keep my buzz going by smoking some weed behind the Panda Express at the O’Hare Oasis during a pit stop. When we get to the hotel, I grab a drink at the hotel bar, take a five minute refresh nap, kiss my grandmother on the forehead and get back to drinking at the rehearsal dinner, where we let the slow shitface boil. My brothers and cousins are in full fucking force, drinking through the meal, closing the open bar and setting the Renaissance Inn’s countertop on fire. The bartender is WEEPING. Fifteen of us get kicked out of the hotel bar after shattering a Dale Chiluly Glass sculpture and go outside to break into a Cheer Squad Bus.
We steal 13 bag lunches from the bus and pass out in our respective hotel rooms, covered in Cheez-it dust.
Wake up and work out after a breakfast of 2 jagerbombs and a Diet Sprite. My parents are shopping or some shit. After lots of dirty looks from the night before, we gather together and go- to a local bar by the Steak N’ Shake to take the edge off with Whiskey Sours and about 15 jugs of flirtini (champagne, vodka, schnapps, seven up). After they run out of Flirtini mix and after one of my cousins fills an ashtray with her own vomit, we leave for pictures.
Then, the wedding.
After the wedding we huff some glue we found in an adjacent skatepark and get some sweet apps. I’m not super hungry because I’ve done a couple of lines with the bride of another wedding staying at the Renaissance, but I can’t say no to mac n’ cheese on bread. Everbody’s all up ON MY NUTS about why I’m 28 and when’s my wedding date, and I understand this question because I’m awesome, but I let everyone know in the form of a heartfelt, BOMB-ASS TOAST that I mean business and that THAT IT WILL TAKE A VERY SPECIAL MAN WHO CAN HARNESS THIS POWERFUL, SEXUAL ENERGY. Still, the 21 year old bartender will do for tonight, and after 30 jack and cokes the dance floor becomes MAKEOUT CITY, population WEEPING BARTENDER.
I can’t do the makeoutz for long because my grandmother needs to use the restroom, so I escort her there and on our way back we run into a herd of deer who implore us to take more jagerbombs. Of course, I never do Jagers without my bros, so THE LEIBS start drinking these FUCKING BEASTS RIGHT BACK INTO THEIR MOIST, LEAVY HOLES. And we don’t stop there- after making sure every Indiana woodland creature SHOWS SOME GODDAMNED RESPECT, the least drunk of us decide to take a small hanger jet BACK TO THE STEAK N’ SHAKE. Naturally, I feel uncomfortable driving under the influence but my second cousin takes the wheel and though she’s an unsteady flier she gets us up but then we CRASH INTO THE WEDDING RECEPTION HALL. Good thing for us, we don’t ruin the wedding because though the shitty Indiana reception hall gets decimated, everyone is okay and we find 3 million dollars worth of UNTOUCHED GOLD buried beneath.
In short, welcome to our family, Libby.
I’m exhausted. I need a drink.