ultimate third wheel

My grandparents own this family compound out in the middle of nowhere in Missouri. I like to think of it as a much less powerful, much more white trash Kennebunkport, Maine. Grandma and Grandpa live in Kansas City, but are out there now and then. Otherwise, the farm sits like an oasis of peace, quiet, and potential liver failure.
The place sleeps about 50 between the three houses out there, which is a good thing 'cause the folks are seriously Catholic and had 9 kids. Multiplication took over, and those kids had kids. Now there is a whole army of cousins. Occasionally, we all get out there. Mostly, though, the farm just plays host to one or two of the cousins who is in college within a 200 mile radius. Now, it's my sister Reilly. A few years ago, it was me.

Back in my day, we would swing through Sedalia, a town of maybe 30,000 people and about half an hour away. We picked up booze before sequestering ourselves at the compound for days of mayhem.
Sedalia is home to Whiteman Air Force Base and a gigantic Wal-Mart. There are Nascar stickers everywhere, and the populace appears to gorge entirely upon High Fructose Corn Syrup. This place has some jowels. Needless to say, we wouldn't spend any more time than was necessary to pick up a metric shit ton of beer and food and then get out of there.

Back at the farm, we would immediately throw in "Ain't no fun" and start singing Snoop's praises. It wouldn't be long before someone (usually me) was stumbling drunk and knocking TV's through windows. It got to the point where I could hardly explain the damage to my grandpa anymore.
Q: Why was there one mismatching 10 gallon gasoline canister in the barn?
A: I threw one (still full) into the bonfire. Feast your eyes on the replacement, pops!
Shame.

At one point, I was having my own private rave on the lawn at 2:30 in the morning. My buddy Tom came out to turn down the music so he and his new girlfriend could get some sleep before returning to St. Louis early the next morning. He found me asleep, half propped in the backseat of another friend's car, legs splayed out in the grass and torso happily on the backseat. I was later told that it looked like a crime scene.
He wrestled my shivering body out of the car, only to have me come to and demand the party continue. Tom is wiser than I am, and he suggested sleep. In a warm bed. It might have been November, but I was in a wife beater and my underwear. Does the white trash stay in Sedalia? Maybe not.

I crashed through the living room and jumped into the first bed I found. His. Right between him and his new girlfriend. When I got up in the morning, I was alone. A voicemail was on my phone, and Tom was single again. I'll take the blame.