>>> Three Beers Deep
By staff writer Chris Phelan
December 27, 2006

First off, thanks to everyone who left feedback for the “Five Ingredients” column last week. Regardless of how good I personally think a column of mine is, I really don’t have validation until I get the first “hilarious column!” comment. So in all honesty, thanks for the good words everybody.

In a related note, my life has changed since having a weekly column, in a couple of distinct ways:

I now have random readers Facebook friending me. Which is definitely creepy, but ultimately not as creepy as me joyously messaging them all back with a pretty gay “thanks for reading!” …Or rifling through their photos if they’re even 1% hot.

My pickup line at bars has changed as well. I used to go with, “Hey, I write the occasional front page article for Pointsincase.com… baby…. Uhh, excuse me…. Uhh, yeah. Hi. I was just talking to you.” But now… now I’m big time. Now it’s a whole different story. Nowadays I march right up to Jesus Christ that’s a pretty face and it’s all, “Hey, I’m Chris. I have a deadline to meet every Monday.” Usually girls think I’m some reporter or something. Which is good enough for me.

“It’s the middle of the day. You’re surrounded by your loving family. And you realize you’re absolutely shithoused.”

And from that point on, I’m golden: I throw in a compliment, follow up with a direct insult just to confuse her, and casually mention that I think Sex and the City is a top 3 all-time show. Have you ever seen a girl literally take her clothes off in front of you in a bar?

So yeah, having a weekly column definitely has its perks. This is the internet equivalent of being featured in the police arrest log in the campus paper—it makes you more popular… you just can’t figure out if it’s the good kind of popular.

Anyway, moving along. Once again, this is Three Beers Deep, baby.

How You Spent Christmas Day

8:45AM: You awake to the sound of your little brothers and sisters trying to wake you up. You are absolutely livid in .8 seconds. You haven’t gotten up this early since freshman English. You plead for a few more minutes.

8:51AM: Your little brother is now jumping on top of you, pleading for you to get up so the presents can start working their magic. You fight the urge to pummel him with all your might.

9:13AM: “Okay, okay, I’m up.” You trudge downstairs to the living room as your little siblings are going absolutely nuts. Usually it takes girls making out at a party for you to be THAT excited. You sit on the couch, smile at your parents, say your only required line of the day (“Merry Christmas”), and start opening your presents with the enthusiasm of a grave digger.

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10:18AM: You’re already back in your bed sleeping. You decide that although your new iPod kicks ass, you wish “sleep” came in present-form.

10:21AM: Oh my God, your parents are blasting Christmas music at a MILLION TRILLION DECIBELS. This is like when your roommate thinks he isn’t keeping you awake with his damn music playing on his computer when in reality you are plotting ways to kill the guy.

10:45AM: You smell food. You get out of bed. You’re informed by your parents that you must get ready for a trip to your relatives’ house. (Oh, and just so you know, it’s always your aunt and uncle’s house. And they always live in Jersey.)

11:10AM: You have to stop yourself from wearing flip-flops in the shower.

12:33PM: You’re in the car with the rest of your family, who as it turns out, has decided to bring along every single present they got for Christmas. Looking around the interior of the car, you count at least 70 little toys and about 12 portable DVD players.

12:38PM: Dad’s arguing with his new GPS system. Comedy at its highest. Meanwhile, Mom is trying to start a fight with her generic scented candle you gave her for the fifth year in a row.

2:02PM: You’re at your aunt and uncle’s house, along with the rest of your seemingly ever-increasing roster of relatives. One of your uncles locks you in, and you proceed with pretty standard conversation, answering questions like “How are classes?” and “Stayin’ out of trouble?” You then go on to have the exact same conversation with every single freakin’ aunt, uncle, grandparent, and pet in the house.

Your eyes wander over to the kitchen. You spy an odd-looking… hmmm… is that a beer? Hey, when did Natty Light change their logo? You look closer.

It’s a Coors Light. You’ve forgotten what normal beer looks like.

You crack it open and take a sip. You’ve forgotten what normal beer tastes like.

You wonder how awkward it would be if you quietly set up a beer pong game on the kitchen counter.

3:44PM: It’s Christmas. It’s the middle of the day. You’re surrounded by your loving family. And you realize you’re absolutely shithoused.

4:07PM: You arrogantly challenge all of your little cousins to a game of Madden.

4:51PM: You get throttled. Your little cousin does the single best victory dance you’ve ever seen. You haven’t been shamed this badly since the time your buddies nicknamed your last girlfriend “Three-Point-Five.”

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5:26PM: Dinner time. You’re beyond drunk at this point. You’re just demolishing any and all food that comes close to your plate. You’re pretty much recreating the last time you were at the dining hall for wing night.

6:14PM: You track down your favorite uncle and start telling him some of your classic college stories. Especially the one about the girl you met at the bar where you wound up crawling naked out of her bedroom window the next morning when her long-distance boyfriend decided to make a surprise visit.

6:15PM: You realize you just told that story to grandma.

6:16PM: You begin to hate your favorite uncle for his uncanny resemblance to his own mother. I mean come on.

6:29PM: You hop on the couch and turn toward on the TV, determined not to tell any more heart-attack-inducing stories to 80-year-old women. Holy crap, you almost forgot. football’s on. And you know what that means. Nope, not your home team fighting for that last coveted playoff spot—you’re in the championship of your fantasy league… and you REALLY need your entire family’s favorite team to lose because you have the other team’s defense.

6:47PM: Your little cousin comes by to challenge you to another game of Madden. You politely decline. He calls you a pussy.

6:48PM: You debate just handing the kid all the money in your wallet. He clearly is the better man today. He’s 14, by the way. You make a decision: if he shames you one more time on Christmas, you’re walking into oncoming traffic.

8:39PM: You wake up. Wow, you must’ve fallen asleep while watching the game. Hey, why aren’t you inside? Ohhhh… you’re so drunk your dad is carrying you to the car. What a great dad. Always there for you.

8:40PM: Your little cousin plops you down into the backseat of your parents’ car. You justifiably begin crying. He starts doing that great little dance of his. Your parents debate trading you for him straight-up with your aunt and uncle. Like, loudly. The whole ride home.

And that concludes the crazy spectacle that was your Christmas. Truth be told, you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

You know the drill. Whether you loved this week’s column or hated it, leave some feedback. And just so you know, in the spirit of the holidays, I will treat every single comment as an individual present, and reserve the right to re-gift…

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