Sausage Fest

by Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Winston

promised there would be girls

and plenty to drink,

but when I arrived with a six pack

and a fifth of rum

I walked in ten to fifteen guys

talking about their feelings;

straight as a bent straw

and in the confessional

after two beers.

Plenty to drink

had become seven beers

in the fridge

and a bottle of gin

(split fourteen ways)

and there wasn't a girl

in sight

as I started in on my six pack

in the corner.

A knock at the door

and some surfer types

in Bermuda shorts arrived,

followed by a couple of roid freaks

doing pushups

in tanks tops

and two delicate little blonde boys

with their guitars

and harmonicas

playing the worst of Simon

and Garfunkel

as I polished off the beer

and started in on the fifth

of rum.

People collapse

like economies collapse,

and with prohibition making a comeback

and not a woman in sight,

I slunk down into my chair

and grew ever more

despondent.

I puked a little in my mouth

as the conversation shifted aimlessly

from sports

to cars

to protein shakes

and back to sports.

Even the music

had grown all baritone

and facial hair.

All adam,

no eve.

It was a real sausage fest

in there.

And according to the calendar

on the wall,

Oktoberfest was still

seven months

away.