Hey, What'd You do Last Night?

How nice of you to ask. After a rather uneventful evening of watching Zoolander on a gigantic television, I ran over to the Pike house to pick up some random shit I had lying around.

As it turns out, I still can't say no to an invitation to a bar, so Camille (in her pajamas), Jack, and I depart for Marshall's, in a 4ride no less. As it turns out a $50,000 annual tuition check also includes a complimentary ride or two to the bar.

Jack, who is by no means an alcoholic, literally knows everyone that works at Marshall's. Everyone. It's reminiscent of my freshman days at the Exchange--more on that never. So we sit down with some drinks and begin to talk about what we always talk about--nothing. That's where it all went downhill.

Enter: jockish looking white guy who already appears to be kind of wasted. This gentleman comes up to Jack, and asks him to referee a game called who can finish an Irish Car Bomb faster. Sure, why the hell not. Cool, that takes 4.5 seconds and we return to our regularly scheduled drinking.

The guy sticks around and continues conversing with us, it appears Jack may or may not know him (it was hard to tell), so we indulge in his conversational whims. As it turns out he looks jocky because he in the Army and recently got back from Iraq. He's talking to us for a while shooting the shit and what not, when out of nowhere, the idea of the "Triathlon" enters the conversation. For you who remain unenlightened--and I was at the time--it's one of each of the following drank in quick succession:

• Irish Car Bomb
• Jager Bomb
• Pint of Beer

Did I mention that the entire thing had to be finished within 30 seconds? It's like 4 shots.

So Camille, the already somewhat tipsy, Irish diehard that she is decides she can stand up to the hard drinking, U.S. Army Infantryman that is already undressing her with his eyes.

She clearly lost.

Now Captain America's putting the moves on. I'll spare you most of the details but I will say that an Eiffel Tower was discussed--seriously. If you need to ask, go to urban dictionary. Oh and the subject of his wife and young child came up. The kid's named Killian. You know, like the beer. Apparently its not cheating if its a threesome. Anyway, at last, a moment of opportunity: G.I. Joe goes to the bathroom, I grab Camille and we catch a cab the hell out of dodge without saying goodbye to anyone. Another boring ending to an otherwise bizarre set of circumstances.

Moral of the Story: Make sure you always have necessary cab fare for emergencies.