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Many, many years ago, I ventured back to the cradle of civilization – Memphis, Tennessee – for the annual World BBQ Championships. As anyone who has attended can attest, it’s really just an excuse to throw a really big party.
Having a BBQ Fest team is no easy undertaking. It’s a massive production that requires permits, inspections, rentals of mandated tents and port-a-johns, in addition to the necessary grills, fuel, meats and accoutrement. To ensure these needs are met, you need a fearless leader with a keen eye for detail, and one that everyone trusts to handle the money.
In this one particular year, everyone paid the estimated dues on time, and we found some cost-saving efficiencies along the way. For instance, we eschewed plates and forks, and we also found a guy that was willing to cut us a back-alley deal for several pallets of the recently outlawed original version of FourLoko.
What this meant was that we had a surplus of funds amounting to just over $1,000. Somehow, that surplus of funds was converted into one enormous sack of MDMA, or ‘molly’ as the kids call it. Before you can say “Crunchy Black did nothing wrong,” that giant sack became more and more empty.
Molly found its way into everything. It started out in the trashcan punch, but pretty soon it was being mixed into bbq sauce, coleslaw, crawfish boil, and even into the rub that went on ribs and pork butts. Disclaimer: there was nothing surreptitious about this. It was a big group of dudes and all were aware of what was happening.
Fun was had. But also, a disaster ensued.
I first sensed something was amiss when the chief of staff of a Republican candidate for Mississippi State Senate called my cell phone with a very babbly case of the sloppy i-love-you-mans. He was five meters away and staring straight at me, while talking on the phone to me. I could do nothing but scrounge food from other tents, clench my unlaced FourLoko tightly, and watch the descent into madness.
Sex was had in the port-a-john before the sun went down. One person woke up in Oklahoma City with no recollection of how they got there. One person woke up to the waters of the quickly rising Mississippi River lapping at their feet, next to a pile of their own poop. Many were incarcerated.
I only tell this story, because apparently legends and fairy tales of this party have made it across the pond. The hottest craze among semimenopausal middle-aged British ladies is apparently to dose yourself with a charcuterie board.
Quoth one of the birds:
“I have a strong circle of female friends, and we had tried all the latest fads, food fashions, and destination dinner parties, but something was missing. We did not seem to have as much of a laugh then as when we were younger, there always seemed to be barriers up between us. So, one of our group suggested we all take MDMA together so we could open up to each other and improve our friendships.”
Ha, in your face, people who thought it was hilarious that time they made their grandmother play Cards Against Humanity. These women really know how to party.
I can certainly see the appeal of this “brie-ing” (they call it “brie-ing” by the way). First, brie, despite being passé and played out, is delicious. Furthermore, a natural anti-diuretic will help retain fluids and alleviate the hangover which was sure to wreak havoc on any quinquagenarian who attempts this.
All in all, I applaud these folks. Good on them for trying something different.
And shame on whoever sold these sweet ladies the molly..