Genetically drunk

This is a public service announcement to Dr. Yeti’s millions and millions of fans.  The Yeti and the Scientist will be in Phoenixville this weekend partying with the Socialite and the Becky in Progress.  Chances are, we won’t be posting because we’ll be busy with other things.  One such thing is discussed below.

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I like to drink.  I guess I’m pretty good at it.  I’ve been boozing since I was 12 and seriously doing liver damage since I was 17.  See, that’s the thing – not only do I like to drink, I like to binge drink.  I’ll get drunk on just about anything with alcohol in it.  At my last department retreat, I drank 30 Key Lights.  Two homecomings ago, I had a delicious Lord Chesterfield’s Ale at 6:30 AM and continued to drink until late that night.  In 2001, there’s a good chance that I was the drunkest guy at Pig Roast.  

If you haven’t been to a Juniata men’s rugby Pig Roast yet, you seriously haven’t lived, jerk.

They say that alcoholism is genetic, and I’m starting to believe that.  My older sister damn near failed out of Pitt as a freshman because she was too busy drinking.  She’s not that bad these days, but she did spend all of January 1st sleeping and throwing up.  My little sister was a late bloomer, but she can’t pass up a Miller Lite these days and has actually retired from doing jello shots after consuming about 637 in two days.

My dad is on a whole other level.  His favorite pastime is sitting beneath the buckeye tree near the driveway where he has no less than three charcoal grills set up (one for meat, one for vegetables, and one for grilling tool storage).  He and his friends have turned that area of the yard into an arena.  There are three recycling bins by the tree trunk, and they all take turns tossing their cans into the bins.  Sounds innocent, right?  Well, I guess it is, but they’ve used their “Old Man Power” to create a whole sport called Tossing.  They’ve got designated can crushing implements, a foul line (two foul lines actually, but the closer one is called the “Tampon Line”), and they even have a scoreboard.  Yes, a scoreboard…with their Tossing nicknames (Toss Boss – my dad, King of the Cans – Danny, Hawaiian Punch – Lenny, Lawn Buoy – Phil)…and hooks where they hang the tabs of cans that they’ve successfully tossed to keep score.  It’s a spectacle to behold.

Now, the four guys above are the regulars, but my dad often has a buttload of people over.  His buddies from work, friends from back in the day, whoever.  They’ll drink as much as possible and have adventures, but that’s a story for another day.  I will say now that once, the Yeti, Frumpkin, and I spent the night at my dad’s, and we put the fear of God into the old boys.  We took them drink for drink through at least 99 beers and still had enough pluck the next day to go to a Pirates game, drink more, and drive back to Juniata.  Go!

Anyway, aside from his ever-present case of Genesee (Sweet sweet Genny as he likes to say), my dad drinks wine.  And not just any wine, he makes his own.  His mother made wine, and her father was a brew master in Pittsburgh.  Now that I’m a homebrewer, I’m continuing at least four straight generations of genetic drunks.  It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  I believe the theory’s always been that if Jess and I ever had a kid, it would be some sort of super-drunk.  It’s like how Cyclops and Jean Grey gave birth to Cable, and he’s the most badass guy in the future and kicked Apocalypse’s ass.  Cable Leigh Bochman would be doing kegstands in his crib and distilling grain alcohol in kindergarten.  

Maybe it’s a good thing I’ll never spawn any children.  With genetic engineering these days though, you all better be on the lookout for a Bochman-Yeti hybrid.