"Best Buy" on Black Friday? No, how about "Best of"???

So seeing as no one is at work, meaning no one has any reason to avoid work and get on Facebook, not to mention everyone's either shopping or sleeping off a massive turkey hangover, I've decided to go back in the annals of the SB blogs and find a Thanksgiving post.  This one was from 2007, when I went to Chicago for the holiday.  Let's just say it involved a lot more than just eating.  That's why we'll pick it up on the Friday after the holiday.  So, to recap...Chicago. Day after Thanksgiving.  Family insanity.  Go.


Excerpt from Blog, November 26, 2007:

Friday, we went to Chicago for the Thanksgiving holiday...I WISH I could have videotaped what I saw. Unreal. Thanksgiving dinner was great. Food, family, beer, blah blah blah...it was SATURDAY that was the fucking unbelievable thing of it all.

So my sister and her husband want to go bowling to celebrate a friend's 30th birthday. I know. "Bowling" and "30th birthday celebration" should never be uttered in the same sentence. It's like "12 year old boy" and "not raping him". Anyway we head out to Dolton, a south suburb of Chicago, to the only alley that had open bowling at 10pm, Dolton Bowl. Upon arriving to the bowling alley I quickly determined that Donovan McNabb isn't the only thing from Dolton that should be destroyed. We get to the door and immediately are stopped by a Chicago Police Officer who says we have to pay $6 to get in the door for our first game and shoes. I'm stunned. I look at my sister who is all good with this guy's demands. So me, sis, her husband, our friend Rodney, my wife and 14 year old daughter go inside.

When we get inside we are met with a scene that probably made The Wife (white) and Daughter (looks and brought up white) shiver in terror. Something like this:

The place is filled with more black people than a crackhouse. It is JAM packed, by the way, and we're told it will be a 30 min-1 hour wait. Fantastic. I go up to the desk to register our name, and he points to a machine where I need to put a quarter in order to register. Unreal. This place is already pissing me off. So finally we register and I head to the bar immediately and see that Busch beer is $1. Fine, I'll take one. As you'll see later it wasn't the worst beer I'd have this weekend. Meanwhile I look over and see a woman walk down the fucking lane to go get her ball which is stuck in the gutter. An announcement immediately comes over the loudspeaker:

DJ: Do not walk down the lane for any reason. And for those of you who are hard of hearing, "DO NOT WALK DOWN THE LANE FOR ANY REASON."

I'm serious. And I'm also serious when I say the DJ made that announcement. Yes, the DJ. There's a guy behind the counter spinning records and such. Jay-Z is blaring on the loud speakers and from left to right people are DANCING IN THE LANES. Fucking DANCING. Don't believe me? Take a look:

There used to be FOUR bowling balls in this lane.  Try and guess where the other two are.

I believe this woman was doing the "Crank That Superman" dance. By the way, I'm not sure if you guys have ever heard that song but it is goddamn awful. I did, however, get a little bit of respect when my sister told me in disgust that the song is actually about a dude spraying his seed all over a girl's back, then sticking the sheet on the cum on her back and doing her so it looks like a cape. When I heard that I'll admit I thought that was some funny shit.

Anywho, the people were STEPPING and doing group fucking dances on the lanes, crossing into our lane...it was literally like we were at the club. Then it got EVEN MORE ghetto if you can believe it. These motherfuckas had CHICKEN WINGS CATERED TO THE ALLEY!!!! Brothas was walking around with paperplates full of chicken wings! It was insane. With all the dancing and chicken wings and grease and unemployment it took six people 2 1/2 hours to finish ONE GAME. It was crazy. Even though it was just six people bowling there were literally 15-20 people packed into that lane next to us. And then to top it all off, this drunk dude, (who surprisingly looked ALOT like my Uncle PoBoy, well, come to think of it, it wasn't so surprising), takes my ball and flings it down his lane. The problem? THEIR GAME WAS OVER. So the ball hit the pin guard and rested down there in the gutter. I had to call the goddamn guy to come over and get the ball. Unfuckingreal.

We left Chicago yesterday morning to get back here in time for halftime of the first set of NFL games. On my way my friend calls and says he's sick so football is off. I'm like, great. I took 8 beers from my parents' house in a calculated plan to drink 8 beers and then move to the Jack. It ended up not mattering anyway because my friend said I killed the Jack last weekend which for some reason I didn't remember doing. Anywho, I hunker down in the basement with my eight beers and start to watch the football. I called another friend and told him he could come over and watch football, but on his way bring me a 40oz of something because I only have the 8 beers. Make that 6 now. But MAKE IT CHEAP. He wants my assurances that I will drink whatever he brings over and I won't leave him holding the bag for a 40oz that he bought for me that I don't want to drink. I said buy the fucking 40, Chappy, and I'll drink the fucking thing. He walks in with this:

Now let's be real here. I've drank ALOT of beer in my lifetime. ALOT. My first beer was Pabst Blue Ribbon so I'm used to drinking shit. Hell, I'm from Chicago where some of the nastiest beer in the world, Old Style, is revered as if it's the legendary Golden Cock of Zanzibar. So for me not to have heard of something is a rarity. This was one of those times. A review of Big Bear on a beer chatroom said that it "has the scent of jet fuel". I opened it up and mother of God. It was as if you were on a long trip cross country and didn't want to stop because you were making great time so you pissed in a Gatorade bottle then forgot about that bottle for six months and then one day saw it in the car and opened it. THAT fucking bad. But I'm a drunk so I drank it. And you know what? NOT the worst beer in the world. I polished off another 40 later in the evening, but this one was Miller Lite. I was drunk, but not too drunk to watch and cheer as the Bears SOMEHOW pulled out a win against Denver, call my sick friend and bitch his ear off about something, and watch as my completely annihilated other friend held my dog Jett(about an 80-100 lb mastiff/german shephard mix) down, laying on the floor with him attempting to be a dog whisperer in order to make him a better dog. When I suggested he get up and go lay down on the couch, his retort was, "NO! Do you want him fixed or not!?!?"

Sundays rock.