With this newly acquired knowledge, I'm super-impressed watching the servers waltz around in their traditional lederhosen (Everyone comments on it. Everyone.) carrying foaming steins, delivering them to tables sans any sign of exasperation. I suspect Dave is a robot.
My friends have shown their faces. Join me, friends. They sit and order their first round. One of them orders a cider; we all take turns ribbing his choice. Me, I'll have Hofbräu OG No. 4, thanks.
The beers (and that lame-ass cider) have arrived, so we decide with hardly any coaxing to order a shot ski for ourselves -- four shots of Jagermeister, please, hold the judgment.
My friends are oh-so-carefully passing down the front end of the ski to reach me, the anchor, as we're standing on our bench. It's our turn as, once again, the shouts of "SHOT! SKI! SHOT! SKI!" reaches our ears. We take our shots, the mass of people cheer, I look up to the 60ft ceiling and raise the fist of a champion.
“Do you know what it feels like / loving someone / sitting at the Hofbräuhaus all day?”
-- the new chorus to Enrique Iglesias' “Do You Know,” as determined by my day-drinking friends and I
Almost five hours into my hazy journey, it’s time to check the scorecard: there are eight shot skis on record -- meaning 32 people (four that are us!) have stood on benches and downed liquor from a ski. Nice job, my Cleveland neighbors. Even if you do have a tendency for subpar lawn care.
Entranced by a wave of smiling, contorted faces, I’m reminded of tailgating for a Browns game. There’s just something about drawing out that blinding optimism that every Cleveland sports fan is cursed with, along with loud, more-drawn-out-than-usual a's. "I'm so myad ayt the Browns dryaft picks."
Loud, guttural woofs break out, as is expected with any large congregation of drinking Clevelanders. Why wouldn't we bark for our sad, sad Browns that we live and die for, even on cold March evenings without a game in sight?