As the newly-elected Congress continued informal conversations and planning sessions, O.U.T.R.A.G.E. hellraisers continued unceremonious drinking and chugging contests. Standed by a Midwest snowstorm, Jil's bar in northeastern Indiana was filled with revelry. Music. booze, dancing and debauchery were the decampment of the day. By early Saturday morning, most of the party had pooped out.
Mike and "Hot" Donna had encouraged those who couldn't find chair or barstools to use the stage as a 'crashing ground'. Piled in lumps of human mass, it was difficult to ascertain whose body parts belonged to whom. Arms, legs, and other assorted bodily apendages entangled each other in a grotesque pyramid of human flesh. Donna's head was on Mike's chest; Mike's head was propped up against one of the massive speakers. Doc, in his inevitable pranksterism, turned on the speaker and cranked it up full blast. "Mike! Get up! Donna's here!" Mike's ten-foot jump into mid-air from a sitting position was a sight to see. Donna's head bobbed off his chest and clunked on the floor of the stage, starting a chain reaction of drunken human movement comparable to a nest of boa constrictors trying to uncouple themselves. Donna's feet conked Bobby Boyles in the shins, who kicked Lovey in the head, whose arm stiffly swung over Dana's face, whose left arm butted her Navy seaman in the eye, who woke up abruptly yelling, "Man Overboard!!" and kicked Bobby Cowles in the stomach, whose glasses fell off and landed on Janie Baker's boobs, who shoved her legs into Phil Baker's groin, who grunted and slurred, "How 'bout one more Crim Jean onna Cocks?"
By 11:00 a.m. Saturday, Doc was fixing a hearty breakfast to those who were slowly recovering from the night before. As they didn't all 'rise and shine' at one time, Doc was able to keep ahead of the hungry crowd. Eggs, sausage patties, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, creamed chipped beef on toast, generous slices of ham, grits, and Cream of Wheat just kept coming out of that tiny little kitchen like bees from a busy hive. By noon, almost everyone was awake, but - oddly - no one felt like drinking. Bob Ryan pushed the bar's front door open with a struggle; the blizzard had blockaded the door. As he rammed his shoulder against the door, he finally managed to open it enough to peek outside. No snow was falling, but the wind was still howling like a horny banshee in heat. "Hey, look, everybody!" Bob exclaimed brightly, "there's no more snow fallin....." Before he could finish his remark, a block of snow the size of a refrigerator fell from above the door, burying Bob in a pure white tomb of bitter cold. It "started a joke, that started the whole world laughing..." as a dozen people crawled to Bob's rescue, trying to dig him out before he suffocated in the avalanche. Wet and chilled to the bone, Bob lumbered back into the bar and ordered "coffee with a good-sized shot of Irish Creme". Phil, hardly able to contain his laughter, giggled, grunted, farted and snorted as his belly shook "like a bowl full of jelly" and he ordered, "I'll have an Irish Creme with a good-sized shot of coffee!"
Promptly, all the rescuers ordered the same hot libation as the rest of the stragglers woke up and seated themselves at the tables, all of which had been haphazardly moved around during last night's festivities.
"Since we're all a little hungover," Jil announced, "maybe we should use this time to do something constructive. It looks like it's going to be a while before snowplows get down the street, so we're pretty much stranded here. I'd like to start planning a Presidents' Day party for mid-February so that everyone in America can honor our greatest U.S. Presidents!" Amidst groans and moans, everyone finally agreed it would probably be a good idea. Usually, Jil's parties were planned impromptu with only a matter of days - or hours - to put something together. It might be nice to actually start making plans a month in advance.
"OK, Jilli," Lynnette remarked as she crawled out from underneath a blanket of coats, "you've got our undivided attention."
From the other end of the pile of warm winter clothing, Lynn's 'army buddy' stuck out his head. "Hi" was all he had to say.
Jil quickly organized a 'round table' and invited this hovel of hungover hoo-hahs to "get to work".
Work progressed well into late afternoon. Then, Phil looked at the clock and screamed, "Hey, everybody! It's five o'clock! Can you say 'Happy Hour'??" Without further adu, the work session was adjourned and everybody headed for the bar. Boo and Suzan started pouring drinks and popping open beers as fast as they could. As Jil looked on with a frown of disappointment, her mood suddenly changed. She'd resigned herself to that old adage: "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em!". The party had kick-started itself all over again. By 9:00 p.m. no one had noticed that it had been snowing again for the past