Buffett Day

Tomorrow is Buffett Day—quite possibly the best day of the year. One of unparalleled debauchery. Which are altogether too few and far between these days. And so I really embrace Buffett Day. And for one day each year, I don’t hold back. I get a little crazy. A little dirty. But that’s Buffett, my friends. I cannot wait—for that one particular harbor.

With forty of Guilford High School’s finest Viking alums packed in a bus, a fin on the top and dozens of coolers stocked to the brim and chilled with ice, we’ll leave our alma mater’s parking lot promptly at 11 a.m. We’ll crack the beers, toast to Buffett, and be on our merry way. Alpine Valley or Bust. Surely we’ll be one of the very first buses to arrive, and again, we’ll toast to that. With leis around our neck, coconut bras strapped to our chests, and grass skirts wrapped loosely around our hips, we’ll catch up with old friends and inevitably meet many new Parrot heads. Brigham will start mixing his signature drinks, and Jenny will serve an assortment of heavily spiked Jello shots. Seven hours later, we’ll stumble to the amphitheater, where we’ll be reinvigorated by Jimmy’s sweet island songs. We’ll dance the night away and sing every word. And much later, we’ll stumble back to the bus, realizing that the fun never ends. And who would want it to? It may take hours to get our bus out of the crowded parking lot, and there’s always the bus ride home.