I never understood the expression "cursing like a sailor" until today. A couple hundred people are near Fisherman's Wharf, celebrating the "First Annual Fuckin' Summer Party," whose invitation boasts "Fuckin' Booze," "Fuckin' DJ," and "Fuckin' Hot Tub." A lot of the partyers work with boats for a living—there's a conversation about "scuttling" that confuses the fuck out of my Plus One and me—and they're about to make it very obvious that "drunken sailor" isn't a meaningless cliché, either.
A cute girl wanders around with a bottle of whiskey. "Whatcha doin' with that Jack Daniels?" a partier with hungry eyes asks her. "Taking it home and making sweet love to it," she answers, hugging it protectively. A man falls face first onto the ground, where, by all rights, he should remain unconscious for several hours. Lazarus-like, though, he rises from the pavement and drains a cup of whiskey. "We refer to these as his episodes," a friend whispers. Fuck!
Someone hatches a plan to steal a yacht and ram the Ballard Locks with it, to protest their "way too fuckin' early" 9:00 p.m. closing time. The plan is quickly abandoned due to lack of ambition. A giant gorilla of a man tears apart a Porta-Potty with his bare fucking hands because it had been occupied for a little too long. A man screams, "Get naked! NOW!" at a woman, who dryly replies, "Oh, it's that time," before she walks away, which is probably for the best, since just about everyone here is probably too drunk to... you know...
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