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Wyman's #5

Don't forget to call.

When the planets align, Institute members answer that primal call to go out and get overserved -- no matter what else may be going on, and no matter who drops the organizational ball. On this particular evening, it was JP and me -- but our group somehow still convened at Wyman's #5 (2037 East 13th Avenue), currently a heavy favorite for Most Favored Bar Status. The Jewish Representative even managed to find us after "raiding a bris" looking for free food and drink. We eventually remembered to call the Liaison for Redneck Relations, but paid dearly for the delay.

Wyman's is a great place to spend all of Saturday and Sunday, engrossed in college and pro football, sitting in a booth where you look increasingly like Jabba the Hutt. Or you can come after a shift with only an hour left until closing and still tie one on, because the phenomenal staff wastes no time in bringing you exactly what you want the instant you need it. The only way to survive these skilled overservers is to order a pizza, which will both satisfy your hunger and prolong your ability to drink without falling over.

Of course, you can't have this pizza if you're on Weight Watchers and sticking to the system where everything that passes between your lips is given a point value. For example, beer is three points, fruit two points and Taco Bell a million. Typically, this isn't a concern for Institute members -- but occasionally we have guy friends, like "Dave," who need to fit into their wedding attire two weeks hence. "Dave" (actual name Dave) whined incessantly about how he had to starve himself all day just to enjoy a few beers that night. Luckily for Dave, he loses count after a few beers, so he can usually hang in there all night.

While debating the inherent femininity of any weight-loss plan, we also touched on the usual inappropriate subject matter, often whenever our beleaguered waitress came by. I think she may have suffered some head injury, because after catching the climax of a long discourse on self-pleasure, she returned not just for the explanation that NAMBLA is a real organization, but dissertations on the variety and quality of orgasms, including irrefutable evidence that not one Institute member has ever been faked out. After that, though, she disappeared.

I wish I'd left with her, because the bad seed planted earlier in the evening was soon in full flower. We finally remembered to call the Liaison for Redneck Relations just as he and his wife "Kelly" (real name Kelly) were settling down for an evening of reading Bible passages. When the phone rang and "Kelly" saw who was calling, she muttered, "[Very un-Christian word] Osborn and JP. Go on out." He was out the door before she finished the sentence. But two minutes later -- and this is why the Institute loves women -- she changed her mind and drove the Liaison to Wyman's, because she realized it would be a hell of a lot easier to hang out there waiting for him than at Denver CARES the next morning.

Thus freed from responsibility, the Liaison punished our oversight by bringing a second wind to a group that had been winding down. Not daring to order the Happy Meal size, he went straight for doubles -- with beers for JP and me attached to every one. By midnight on a school night, we knew were going to regret this evening for the next 72 hours. Sadly, it was more like a week.

So our advice is to make sure you notify all your serious alcohol-craving acquaintances before heading to Wyman's. The bar will take good care of you, even if you are on a diet.

 
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