T he wrongdoers at K&K continue to clean the skeletons out of their closets before the new year by begging forgiveness for past sins and egregious errors in judgment.
. When we were going to university in Victoria in the 1990s, we would often find ourselves at a downtown nightclub called Scandals. The name alone should have posed a problem for us, but alas we enjoyed the bar's three-for-one nights and dance-friendly tunes that appealed to the Lollapalooza part of our malleable psyche. During that period of our grungy lives we were also notoriously cheap and on occasion would sneak our own booze into Scandals to save money. Apparently, even three-for-one pricing was too much for our thin wallet to bear. One particularly blurry night, not only did we meet a friend in the stall of the bathroom to get our store-bought drink on, but we brazenly drank our contraband alcohol out in the open, thinking no one would notice. That was until the waiter asked to see our bottles. "We don't sell those here," he said before kicking us out. But when we think back to that shame-filled night, getting kicked out wasn't even the worst part. The worst part was that we were caught drinking Okanagan Premium peach-flavoured cider.
Sorry, Scandals, for contravening your strict provincial government-enforced liquor laws (although, we wonder what they would have thought about your three-for-one nights).
Sorry, Scandals waiter, for putting you in an awkward position where it must have felt like you were a babysitter scolding drunk university students for bad behaviour.
Sorry, 20-something-year-old self, for repeatedly taking you to a bar called Scandals for three straight years, for not owning a more adult-like flask, for the humiliation of getting kicked out of said bar and the shame associated with your choice of alcohol that you wrongly believed got you drunk faster because of higher alcohol content and gave you fresher breath because it smelled like peaches, when in fact the only reason you drank it was because it tasted like candy.
. Back in the days when the Courier had open-bar, bring-a-guest, themed Christmas parties, we bought ourselves a $99 basketball jersey to complete our costume, which had something to do with the 1970s, we think. Since we couldn't envision a time when we would ever wear a basketball jersey except at a costume party, we kept the price tags on and tried our best not to spill any of the litres of free booze we imbibed that night on ourselves. What we didn't anticipate however was the '70s-inspired "aroma" that we inflicted on our polyester attire from hours of sweating, doing the worm on the dance floor and generally being a hero. Still, the next day we folded up the jersey and returned it to SportsChek for a refund, saying it was a gift for our brother, but he already had the same jersey and didn't need another one.
Sorry, SportsChek, for returning a slightly used basketball jersey under false pretenses.
Sorry, chubby body, for not keeping you in the kind of shape that would be complimented by wearing a basketball jersey.
Sorry, co-worker Jackie M., who we accidentally kicked in the crotch when we did the worm between your legs.
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