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From drunk boating to blow jobs, it's all in a day's work

A job is a job is a job. No matter how cool it is, there will be days when you hate it, guaranteed. Your job could be receiving blow jobs, and eventually there will come a day when you walk into the office and think to yourself, "Jesus Christ, I can't believe these assholes are gonna make me get my dick sucked again."

But then there are days when you truly love your job. Glorious days when you feel you're doing exactly what you should be doing, and the world somehow makes sense.

Last Friday was just such a day.

On August 5, Colorado's new BUI — Boating Under the Influence — laws took effect. Long story short, you used to be able to operate a boat with a blood alcohol content of .10, but thanks to those killjoys in the Colorado Legislature, now your BAC can only be .08, the same as the legal limit to drive a car.

If anything, I think they should have raised the BAC for boating. After all, boating has a long, storied history of absolute shit-facedness. Think Hemingway, Kennedys and pirates — all guys who did just fine for themselves. Surely getting drunk and manning a water vessel couldn't be that bad. So I set sail to find out for myself.

Which is how I found myself at REI at noon last Friday, fresh off of taking down a couple of pints of Guinness at My Brother's Bar down the street. For the record, I am no good at day drinking. Something about the glare of the sun magnifies my drunk intensely, so that four beers feel like fourteen, and I'm transformed into a stuttering fool. Once, when I was in college, the Roots played a concert on the school's central lawn, and by the fourth song, I had passed out drunk, face down at the feet of a dancing throng. Of course, this may have had something to do with the fact that I also ate a mysterious Rice Krispie treat, a treat that the guy who gave it to me said contained "everything." But regardless, I get fucked up in the day. I need the night to hide my sins. So, mustering all my confidence and professionalism, I approached an REI guy.

"Do you have, like, kayak tests on the Platte?" I asked.

He looked at my waterproof shorts and Tevas, rolled his eyes and did his best to veil his contempt.

"We don't do that," he said.

"But I thought I've seen people doing that before?" I asked.

"We will have demo days occasionally at the beginning of summer, but it's not a regular service."

I stared at him, rubbed the back of my neck, thought for a second.

"Do you guys sell inner tubes?"

"No, sir," he said, the "sir" a blatant fuck-you in my drunk face. "We don't."

There I was, noon-thirty on a Friday, drunk and in need of a body of water and a craft. Think, man, think. I decided to buy some time by charging a $90 pair of shoes on my parents' credit card (I'll hear about that one in a month), and then it hit me: City Park! I could go to the lake and rent a paddle boat! But when I got there, the stand wasn't open. As I looked at them bobbing by the reeds, I thought about stealing a paddle boat — but I decided I didn't need to be charged with both a BUI and theft. So instead I headed to the Museum of Nature & Science, a place that will always be the Denver Museum of Natural History to me. Behind the museum were dozens of children, shrieking and giggling and dodging the cannon blasts of water that shot out of the ground as part of the park's fountain system. I decided to join them. For a full five minutes, I danced among the children in the August sun, feeling a little like Holden Caulfield and a whole lot like a pedophile.

Dripping wet, I finally went back to my car, where I attempted to dry out — literally and figuratively — before returning to the office, and I came to a few conclusions. I don't know about boating, but playing in a fountain you can definitely do drunk — maybe even shit-faced, but that's a test for another day. I also realized that sometimes I really love my job. But if there's an opening at the blow job factory, I'm giving my two weeks.

 
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