After this past weekend I know what Keith Richard's liver feels like. I and ten other hell-bent drunks braved the wilds of North Federal Boulevard and Steamboat Springs for a bachelor party weekend that sent Nels off to the marriage gallows in grand drunken fashion. I will spare you the details of the weekend as they are mostly laborious accounts of steak dinners, inebriated heroics and vulgar slurs of grandiose proportions directed at one party-goers Denver Bronco Cheerleader sister. The entire bachelor party shared their sexual fantasies surrounding said sister during the entire weekend (mostly after the aforementioned party-goer threatened to inflict physical harm). My favorite fantasy included Shannon Elizabeth, a sponge and a bathtub filled with hot fudge. It is amazing what three motivated drunk people can accomplish on Howelsen Hill with a crude sledding device (read: the padding from a nearby ski lift tower). Me being one of said drunk people (and just in case someone in Steamboat Springs law enforcement or my mother is reading this) all I will say about the incident is this: that was some fun shit.

Labels: colorado, drinking, nels, pop culture, weekend that was

Today marks the twentieth anniversary of John Belushi's overdose via speedball. The autopsy and police report from that day can be seen here. His last days on earth went something like this:

Belushi sits fat, naked and bloated on the toilet of some random, fleabag hotel in Southern California. He is hanging out with a dirty crack whore who he met the week prior and has been up for the past three days with her mainlining whiskey, pot, coke and smack. "Hey, I got an idea," remarks the junkie whore. "We should start speedballing so we no longer feel the depression of coming down from our high(s) anymore." Belushi agrees. "Great idea. We will be so high. Fix me up! Hijinks ensue.

Labels: death, drugs