Periodically, Husband gets together with three of his old high school buddies for a boys’ weekend. Husband and two of the three friends enjoy similar modes of relaxation, chiefly urban and Scotch-fueled.

They have a fourth friend who is a musician. For unknown reasons they decided to let him plan their boys’ weekend this year. Where is the Rat Pack headed? You guessed it: the Renaissance Faire!

I have been trying to imagine what a lame version of The Hangover that particular Lost Weekend would inspire.

A: Zounds, but my head doth ache! O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.

B: O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! That we should with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause transform ourselves into beasts!

C: What ho, lads! An infant, mewling and puking? The recollection of its arrival is in my memory locked, but I have not the key.

A: Men! I’ th’ jakes! A ravening Tyger!

B: But where is D? He is rendered lost.

C: Wait. Is D the one who made us come to the Renaissance Faire?

A: Yep.

B: Let’s get the hell out of here before he comes back.

Exeunt, pursued by a Tyger.