Recently in the "...as SEEN on the TiB" thread there seems to be a wide collective agreement that tales of substance would rock the shit in book form. So kids, I throw down the gauntlet on each and every one of you. If a guy can write four books on drunken debauchery, surely you can write One. Measley. Chapter. Pimptress and toytoy, feel free to sit this one out if you want since you both have already pitched fucking DOOZIES. FOCUS: Your best drinking tale. Hit it.
Senior skip day in high school spawned what would be the most drunk I've ever remembered being in my entire life. Now, I realize that high school drinking stories are very amateur, but this one stands out as the shining star against many booze-fueled nights. Even better than when I beat the shit out of Mr. Incredible in a Tigger costume. (Note: Most of this story is how it was told to me later on) My girlfriend at the time was an insufferable bitch, but she had a way of pulling good ideas out of her ass about 70% of the time. This time, her idea was to go up to Newport, RI for our Senior skip day. Now, I had never been to Newport, but it didn't exactly sound like the best place to be. But she was insufferable, as was her friend who dragged her boyfriend along too. Apparently we were to rent and ride scooters around the mansions and then later eat some kind of crumbling pastry on a veranda...or something. It all happened very differently. I convinced myself the trip would suck unless I was so shit-faced that I just didn't care what we did, so I started drinking in the car on the way up. We hit traffic along the way, so I drank a lot more than I had expected. I also took some pill that was handed to me--a pain killer the size of my fist that shortly thereafter left me staring out the back window at the stars singing Tubthumping at the top of my lungs. I don't even think the song was playing on the radio. We got to the Motel 6 or Super 8 or whatever shit hotel we were staying at and I could barely walk. As we approached the front desk, the young woman at the counter didn't seem excited to see us there, but acted like the place is full of assholes all the time, so whatever. I handed her my credit card after she gave us the rates for the night and she gave it back asking for my signature on the receipt, at which point I drew a smiley face and slid it back across the counter. Apparently the universal sign of joy is not an acceptable signature, and she reprinted the receipt for a second go, which I suppose I completed to her satisfaction. We get up to the rooms and continue drinking, only to find that our longer-then-expected drive up depleted our booze supply drastically and we were running low--and fast. Ever the quick thinker, I tell the other couple that for the next game of pong, they can use the beers, and we'll use vodka. A genius idea if there ever was one. I grabbed the ice bucket and began pouring. I also kept talking. Eventually the talking stopped and, whatdya know, all the vodka in the newly-opened bottle was gone and the ice bucket was full. I grabbed some of the juice we had brought for mixers and put enough in to make it red, poured the entire bucket into our cups, and it was game on. The first cup stung like crazy, the second one was better, and the third one just felt like trouble, but didn't taste like much. My girlfriend was of no help, as they were "all too strong" (no shit). It also didn't help that we were getting killed. The game ended quickly, and I had drank all but one cup. My girlfriend realized that I was probably in a bit of trouble and suggested a nice hot shower to "sober up." I weighed probably 140lbs. and drank roughly half my body weight in 5 hours. Yeah, a shower should turn me into a fucking Rhodes Scholar. We get into the room and she says that we should have sex first, but that she's got to pee and pushes me on the bed. When she comes out of the bathroom, she sees me pissing into the artificial plant in the corner, and predictably flips out. I just started laughing, finished up, opened the window to our third story room, and threw the plant out. I have no idea what it landed on. The flying plant was then followed by one of the saddest attempts at sex in the history of the male penis. It was awful, and we quickly gave up. We decided that it was time for that shower and after only about 30 seconds under the hot water that was supposed to cure me of my inebriation, I vomited all over her and collapsed on the floor of the tub. The rest is...as you would expect. I woke up hours later confused and covered in a red vodka-puke slurry on a bathroom floor in a hotel I had no recollection of ever entering. I spent the next 8 hours puking and dry heaving. We never saw any mansions, and I couldn't drink vodka for years afterwards.
Seeing as how it's Australia Day I'll tell the story about how I tried to play with a Taipan. Australia Day 2009 and after having already finished a sixpack by half 9 in the morning I got a message from a mate saying to come over before heading to the local pub for the rest of the day. Scrounged a ride off someone and I'm down at their house shooting the shit for another hour or so while I finish my other sixpack and then jump in the car with someone when they go to pick up some more grog from the pub. At this stage in life I was enough of a regular at the pub that I knew the owners, managers and nearly all of the staff, the manager had saved me one of the annual Tavern Australia Day t-shirts they had made up every year and I went up to another mates house to say hello and switch my shirt. Get back down to the pub and the barmaid tells me I'm not allowed to drink until I finish the schooner of water she puts in front of me. I scull the schooner of water and that is about one of the last things I remember for the day and it's not even 12. These are the vague recollections and stories I have been told about what transpired for the rest of the day. Around about 2pm I remember seeing a few of my mates go over the weir which was in massive flood at the time in cardboard boxes to the delight of everyone in the pub. When I got home I apparently banged on a neighbours door, was inside talking to her and then spent 10 minutes wrestling with her trying to kiss her which baffles the shit out of me because I was not ever once interested in her. She got rid of me by suggesting we go for a swim which I lept at and jumped into the complex pool fully clothed. At this stage I think it was around 10 at night and another mate has come back from the pub to where he lived in the complex and is in the pool with us. For some reason I've gotten out and seen the snake for the first time which they already knew about. The girl has followed me and pulled me away from the snake about half a dozen times until I get back in the pool and she leaves. The snake had been run over but was still alive and very very angry not to mention a Taipan. I've then faked my other mate out and made a run for the snake and he has tackled me on the concrete and a wrestle to get away has begun which was always going to end in his favour and ended with me being spun around on the wet surface of the drive by the giveaway tie I had wrapped around my head, somewhere along the line I lost my shirt as well. Wake up the next morning on my couch, no hangover and next to no recollection of anything past 12 the day before but according to more than one person lucky to not be in hospital with snake bites. All in all one of the messiest days I've been a part of.
In college I woke up in a sink, in an empty apartment in my building. I was woken up by the landlord, who happened to be the town cop. Different story, spoilered for length and quality. I typed it up, I'm going to post it. Spoiler This happened about 4 years ago. Me and 3 other friends/co-workers of mine (Wikki, Mike, and Ryan) decided to go to a FM Jets hockey game. Before the game we go to a bar (Labbys) that’s close by for a couple drinks and some food. Nothing special so far, we’ve done this routine many times before. At the game we start drinking the SPARKS energy drinks. I’m not exactly sure how many drinks I had but nothing more than any other time. After the game we decide to go back to Labbys because they were offering 2 for 1’s if you had an FM Jets tickets and since Wikki had an in with the FM Jets we got a lot of extra tickets. When we get to the bar I decide I wanted to drink scotch on the rocks. Since we had 2 for 1’s, they were doubles. Along with that initial idiocy, for some reason I decided that I would go drink for drink with Wikki and Mike who are both in excess of 250lbs. This is a very bad idea because even in ideal conditions my 170lb frame could not go drink for drink with them. The last thing I remember is talking to a couple of cute girls at the bar. The next morning I wake up with my head groggy and my underwear, for some strange reason, soaking wet. I really had to piss so I assumed that pissing myself isn’t the reason for wet boxers. I step out into my living room and see that I must have fallen on my coffee table because one of the legs is now broken off and laying a few feet away. I piss and walk back into my room and notice my jeans on the floor are also drenched. I start to question if I took a shower with all my clothes on. I then check my phone and see I have 13 missed calls and 3 messages. I listen to the messages and they are all from Wikki asking me where the hell I’m at and that they are looking for me. I give Wikki a call and find out the following: At Labbys we decided to go to another bar/dance club. We pile into Mikes vehicle and head there. As Wikki gets carded, he looks back and sees everyone (with me in the back) and walks in. Mike and Ryan join him and they look back and don’t see me. They assume I went to the bathroom so they get a table. 10 minutes goes by and no me, 20 minutes go by and no me. At this point they decide to go looking for me because when I start drinking I have a habit of walking home. They look around the club and don’t see me so they get in Mikes car and starting driving the path I would take to get home. This whole time they are calling me, leaving me messages with no answer at all. Finally at about 2:10 someone picks up. It’s the bouncer from the club, apparently he found me passed out in a snow bank outside the club. They pick me up and bring me home and since I was apparently coherent they figure it was safe enough to leave me alone. I’m pretty sure I should have died that night.
Relatively long. Spoiler In 2010, i attended a 21st birthday party for a girl i went to school with. Earlier that day, my band had split up and i had just desided to start drinking. When my friend came to collect me and drive to the party i was already quite drunk and he had this smirk on his face knowing of the shitshow that was going to take place tonight. We arrive at the party and I continue drinking steadily through the parent's speeches and various photos. The birthday girl's sister-in-law, a rather religious girl, said that she was worried about how drunk I was and started hovering around me, trying to limit my drinks. The real turning point was when i saw a collection of women taking photos drinking out of a giant fishbowl. They're all giggling at how ludicrous this fishbowl is. As I was watching, my friend challenges me to scull the fishbowl. I swagger over and take the fishbowl and rip the 20+ straws out of it and start sculling. All I remember was a forboding silence as I sculled it all. It tasted great but there was so much liquid in my stomach, I couldn't swallow the last 2 mouthfuls and spat them into the garden. Nothing. I come to in the bar precinct, dancing ridiculously to some buskers and very aware that everyone is staring at me. I am also muttering to myself like a crazy person. I have no phone and $300 in my wallet. I figure i'll meet up with my friends at our regular bar (assuming they all went out with me). I get there and the guy who drove me to the party is ecstatic that I have arrived. He shoves 2 tequila shots into my hands. Nothing. I come to at home. Someone is banging on my door. It's my mother. I can't quite understand what is going on. She has a disapproving look on her face. A priest at a church not far from the bar precinct called her, saying that he had found my phone in the carpark of his church. This freaked her out, because without it, no-one knew where I was. I've since been told that when i blacked out the first time, we had caught a cab from the party and i was sitting in the back. A guy in the front seat and i started wrestling and fighting. Something that i thought was a joke, he was taking very seriously. The cab driver demanded that we stop and i started trying to wrestle him. it took the convincing of the other 2 people in the cab for him to take us the whole way. They were both angry with me when we arrived and we all went our seperate ways. No-one knows what i did until i arrived at the bar. When I blacked out the second time, I spent roughly an hour at the bar, smashed 3 glasses, started serving my own drinks when the staff weren't looking, and then left alone. The issue is that I had a reciept for a taxi home that works out to be over an hour after I had supposedly left the bar. Only one person encountered me after that moment and they said that I bought a homeless person an entire pizza from a street vendor.
About 8 years ago I went to a (female) friend's birthday party at the home of a person I didn't know, and there were a bunch of people I didn't know. There was a pool, and I gathered from conversations during the evening that it was customary for the birthday girl/boy to go skinny-dipping, and other people could join in if they wanted. About two hours and probably 6+ drinks later (beers and various mixed drinks), I got tired of waiting for the birthday girl to strip and get in the pool, so I beat her to the punch. I stripped behind the cover of some tropical plants, then did a nude cannonball into the pool. No one was expecting it, and no one would get in the pool with me. After about 20 minutes and another drink, I decided to get out (Birthday girl brought me a towel). Problem: I couldn't find my clothes after that. Since I had undressed in a dark corner of the yard with lots of foliage, I couldn't see where I had put them. Solution: Continue partying for the rest of the night wearing only a towel. This was back when I was about 20 pounds lighter and worked out, so I pulled it off and got unsolicited phone numbers from two different girls by the time I left. (Unfortunately I lost them. What could have been...) No one else got into the pool that evening, and I was never invited back to that house. Birthday Girl found my clothes before I left, by the way.
Hard for me to pick one, but I'll enlighten you all on one heck of two evenings that I've briefly discussed on here before. If this thread gets some legs, I'll post another. BEfore I start, let me just say the reason this plays out is because when you have friends that live together, whenever shit goes down the first thing both expect you to do is take their side. I simply did both in this situation. This one's called the "Triple Threat" because it involves three guys, and one single horrible thing happened to each of us. Two older friends of mine, Howard and Scott, were having their ten year high school reunion in the north-east end of town. They weren't thrilled about going but felt like getting shit-faced and making fun of people. So when I get there with twelve beers, they're hammering boilermakers at 5pm like a hooker getting paid by the moan. One of them frisbees a ceramnic plate at me the mintue I enter the door and it disintigrates against the wall behind me "HEADS UP!!!"....three seconds after the throw. The reunion generally sucked, but they were serving 1992 prices (or better): one dollar tallboys. So, we would grab two, walk out the gym door into the parking lot and shotgun them behind a dumpster. Combine that with a joint the size of a flashlight and We. Are. Fucked. However, their colletion of boring classmates are who are now mostly boring, married yuppies got old fast, so they felt like reliving their youth while on school grounds: an unnamed stunt that involves you being catapulted dozens of feet into the air. Here's how it works: we walk out to the flagpole out in the centre boulevard of the school and untie the drawsting. Every guy grabs the draw rope and starts walking away from the flagpole, pulling with all their might. Then: "One...Two...THREE!!!!" ...two guys let go, one hangs on and whooooosh you go FLYING through the air, catapulting across the grass to the other side of the pole and NOT landing well ("roll when you hit or you'll die" Scott tells me). I, being the outsider and drunker than Tara Reid at a P. Diddy bash decide to show off. I demand the four other guys watching to ALSO pull back on the rope with us for, tripling the tension and bowing the steel flagpole like an eye lense. In an immense gesture of retardation, I wrap my hands in the rope and KAPWING two and a half stories into the air I go, directly at the flagpole. Apparently I was not supposed to stand paralell with it and I hit it dead-to-rights like a fucking Roadrunner booby trap. The blow nearly croke my eye socket, and in quick instinct I let go of the rope and grab the wet pole 25 feet in the air, which I immedietly fire down at the Speed Of Fear, loose paint chips digging into my flesh like stingray barbs for the whole journey. "That.....was.....AWESOME." says Scott, standing over my mangled, fetal-position corpse still half-wrapped around the pole. "A little BEER will kill that pain." When we get back to their apartment Howard goes to throw up all the food he ate since birth then quickly faints in his room. Scott takes me aside. Let's go back in time a few weeks: One night when they were obliterated drunk, Howard decided it would be funny to shave off one of Scott's eyebrows while he was passed out. Let me tell you that if that shit happens to you, it is NOT funny. You are basically a deformed freak for weeks until it grows back. You can't go out anywhere or do ANYTHING. Scott had murder in his heart and I had to get in his way to stop him form dropping a freeweight on Howard while he was asleep for the ordeal. "I STILL kind of want to kill the fucker." Then, getting one of the most sociopathic light bulbs over my head ever, I say "How about if we make him THINK he's going to die?" So, here's how it went: I got the new Geri gas can they had just bought and filled it with lukewarm water. We put on black ski masks and wifebeaters, and prepared to give this guy a show. Right before we enter his room, Scott gets a lightbulb of his own. "I'll be right back" He comes back with a gas-soaked rag from his shed. "Throw this in his room and let the smell build up a little bit". Jesus. So, we take five and enter. I stand at the foot of the bed, Scott stand right nest to him and starts dumping the water out of the gas can onto Howard's torso. Nothing. He dumps it on his face. Success. I light up a flare, hoilding it in front of him like Costner in Waterworld. Howard awakes to two masked men dumping gasoline on him about to set him on fire in bed. His eyes whirl out of his skull NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NOHe torpedos out the door screaming in absolute horror. Scott high fives me, walks out of the room to Howard, who has gotten wise after our laughing begins. "Now we're even" But, they weren't. Next day: Howard demands satsifaction. He did time do he has it hard-wired into his DNA to never back down from anybody. Since I quarterbacked scaring him more than he's ever been in his life, I have to repay the favour to Scott Yojimbo-style. Tonight. "Fine. But We're all have to get him shitfaced because he can't wake up. What's he scared of?" "Umm...hieghts. Oh, and flying." "That's not gonna work." "Fuck. Oh, wait!! Blood! He's cared of blood and gory thing!" He was right. I remember once we watched "Poltergeist" and Scott lost his shit at the part when they guy peeled his face off, he ran from the room freaked out. He's hemophobic. It just so happened it was October, so I went to Spencer's Gifts and bought am entire quart of stage blood and believe me-- this shit looks real. Then, we got shitfaced. Scott was still kind of drunk from the night before so pretty soon he's WAY WASTED and wanting to pull the chute early. "Well, if you're not feeling well you're not feeling well buddy. Call it a night (barley containing giggling) We gave him an hour, yelled at him to see if he was in Drunk REM, filled a paint tray with blood, then went to work: finger painting his name over and over and over again all over the white walls and ceiling, along with a few Pagen symbols, handprints and some pentagrams for good measure. When our work was complete, we turned on the light and ran. Nothing. Still passed out. Howard decides to aid in waking him and drives the point home with a volleyball to the face. ...you know, I wish I could describe the way he screamed. Picture the sound of your dog being struck by a car, only lower pitch and repeated forty times. When I walk in, he's on his hands and knees, head to the floor. SOBBING. "Are you fucking HAPPY now, asshole? I say to Howard. "We made him cry" he said with a 2000 foot-wide smile. "Like you even have to ask."
I already recounted this story on RMMB in real time, but here it is again: Several years ago my girlfriend left me for an alien. Not an illigal immigrant, a real fucking Spielberg-esque alien. At least that's what he claimed to be on the internet.( Do people fib on the internet? *Gasp!*) She was gullible and quite possibly really fucking stupid. I can't fully put the blame on her because by that point our conversations had devolved to: Her: "What are you doing?" Me: "Go away." Her: "You're an asshole." Me: "Why haven't you gone away?" Yeah, things weren't going well between us. And then she dropped the bombshell..."I'm leaving to go to Colorado to live with this guy who's from a planet with a name we can't pronounce." I looked up at her, and then at my beer can, and blinked my eyes a few times because that was about the only appropriate response I had to this ludicrous statement. How the fuck else can you you respond to a statement like that? I simply had no words and sat there on the couch blinking and twitching like a very confused traffic signal. This was apparently God fucking with me for getting involved with a girl 16 years my junior. (I was 45, she was 29...don't get your panties in a knot.) I knew she had issues when I met her, but I was a knight in shining armour. I was going to make everything better and provide her with a safe, stable home. It turns out that you can't fix crazy. I started to realize this when my unsuspecting ass walked into the bathroom and it looked like someone had slaughtered a goat in there. There was blood everywhere. The first words out of my mouth were a very loud "WHAT THE FUCK?" Her reply was a demure "Well, I didn't feel pretty, so I cut myself." I'm generally not an alarmist, but my response was "All over my fucking bathroom? What the fucking fuck?" (Sometimes words fail me when I'm staring at a bloody mess all over my walls.)l So that's the backstory. The day I dropped her off to go meet her alien I was in a foul mood. This girl was bat shit crazy, but I did love her in the way a mother duck loves her ducklings even if one of them is a swan pretending to be a duck. I got home to my now empty house and pretty much lost my shit. I started drinking. A lot. About 15 beers in, I had a vision...a vision of a big fucking hole in my yard. For a normal person this would've been nothing more then a passing thought. I, on the other hand had the equipment to reshape the face of the Earth. I proceeded to stumble out to my backhoe, fumble around with the keys...and success! It fired off. The day would only degenerate from there (As if the day could get any worse...my girlfriend had just left me for an alien. Seriously, you can't make this shit up.) I pointed the backhoe towards my front yard and took off. "Roar, Roar" went the engine. "Glub, glub" went another beer down my throat. I then proceeded to dig a 25 foot diameter hole that was about 4 feet deep. It was an impressive hole. A hole that should go down in the annals of big fucking impressive holes dug by a drunk on a backhoe. I woke up the next morning (I have no idea how, or when, I stumbled in to my now empty bed) to a huge, glorious hole in my front yard. I guess on the plus side I did momentarily forget my former girlfriend as I wiped my eyes and surveyed the havoc I had wrought. I now had a huge fucking hole in my front yard, and I needed to deal with this shit. Plus I had a hangover that would kill an angry bear. I did the most reasonable thing my foggy mind could think of and made myself a Bloody Mary to chase away the spiders clamboring about in my head. The angry spiders appeased, I stumbled out and fired off my road grader to fix the hole. Trust me, the last thing you want to do with a raging hang over is pilot a 1962 Gallion road grader. It took me 3 days to fill in that hole. Apparently I don't take break ups very well. (My best drunk story? Probably not. I'm old and it pretty much takes a few swift blows to the head to bring the memories back.)
I am re-posting toytoy and Pimptress' earlier tales on here again for the sake of common hilarity toytoy's: Spoiler ...and Pimptess'. Witchy woman. Spoiler Genius. Evil genius.
Just to add, the flagpole is still bent out front of that school to this day from my retarded ode to Dar Robinson.
A most prodigious drinking career. I need to give this some careful though. How are we defining best? Best as in "I achieved a.44 BAC and Everything Was peaches and cream the next day" or as in "The ENTs told be I hit .44 and the cocktail at my cousin's wedding hadn't even ended yet" best?
I'm not quite that ambitous my friend. I write shit when the mood strikes me, which isn't often. If someone asked me to write a book, I'd probably end up pacing around the yard and yelling at passing cars for being cars. I'm not very stable. That being said...who want's to offer me a book deal? You'll probabaly get a bunch of indesifrable crayon markings on empty beer boxes...but that's why you hire editors right?
"Fuckin' CARS!!! Think you're so GOD...DAMN... cool cause you can have rims n' I can't? I CAN HAVE RIMS TOO, MOTHERFUCKER!!!" (drunkenly discharges firearm into ever-growing oil drum pyramid)
I'm not sure this can be considered a "best drinking tale". Nothing happens that I can brag about. But it is probably the funniest tale I have if you like self-deprecating humor. Gravitas Goes to El Paso/Juarez and Makes It Smell Worse Spoiler I was sort of a goody-two-shoes growing up. I didn't start drinking until I was a senior in high school. In my hometown that is the equivalent of Charlie Sheen staying clean and sober for 9 months. But this meant that when college came around I didn't have a whole lot of drinking experience. My biggest issue was/is pacing. Once the train starts rolling it is hard to stop. This is fine when you have a limited supply of alcohol. But when you find yourself in Juarez nightclub where you can pay $10 to drink as much watered down rubbing alcohol of various flavors as you want pacing yourself is paramount. It was my third week in college and my second trip to Juarez. The week before I went, but only as a designated driver. I plan on getting completely obliterated and make the most of my college experience. We got there early as planned. This allows you to get in a good number of drinks before the bar is overwhelmed. It also allows you the chance to tip your bartender a bit and get him to recognize your face. A $5 bill in Juarez goes a long way. As a point of reference lap dances ran $6 at the time, but that is a different story. I start the night off doing double shots of tequila. They aren't full shots especially through the lens of an 18 year old male trying as hard as he possibly can to impress anyone watching, but at two-at a time though they are probably close to a shot. I don't remember much of the night. What I do remember is that every time I went up to the bar I was immediately handed two shots of tequila. I would be trying to order sex on the beaches or lemondrops for the girls I was with and I sometimes got those, but I always had to do 2 shots of tequila first. One time I downed two shots and turned to walk away when someone tapped my shoulder and handed me two more. I was George Jones on a lawn mower drunk. But I was keeping it together. Nothing of real interest happens at the club or the walk back across the bridge. We cross the border and get in the car. There were six of us in the car including the driver. 4 of us were in the backseat, which is illegal and a great way to nab college kids who have a hard time convincing more than 1 person to be a designated driver. My buddy pulls out of the parking lot, drives a block, and the sirens come on behind us. I start freaking the fuck out. I mentioned I was a goody-two-shoes earlier and all that fear of fucking up and getting in trouble and being a worthless piece of shit and getting in trouble like my brother and blah blah blah comes roaring back full force. I have to puke. IMMEDIATELY But I remember there is a cop behind us. If I get out of the car the cop will see me puke and I am dead to rights getting a ticket or going to jail or going to become a janitor for the rest of my life and not like Matt Damon janitor, but a creepy moustache janitor. In a flash of brilliance I immediately know what I have to do. I lift up my shirt, lean down, and puke into it. But that train is hard to stop as well. More puke. And more puke. People rightly start to freak out/lose tolerance of the noxious fumes roiling off the hot liquid being expelled from my mouth and get out of the car. I'm told that at one point I puke into a solo cup and filled it all the way up in one go. Finally I start. puking into the gutter. My buddy driving gets a ticket for minor in possible consumption. The upshot is that we can't drive back. We need someone to bring a car and a sober driver, so we can get home in one piece. I'm not sure how, but a friend ends up driving my truck. I have no idea how they got the keys. I somehow finagle into riding in my truck instead of the puke filled car the 40 miles back to school. Though I am forced to sit in the back seat because I smell so bad. I puked once out the window on the way home I think. We finally make it back to town and the girl takes me back to my dorm room. The entrance to the dorms is one way. She begins to pull in the wrong way. I try to convince her not to do this, but it is too late. There are cop cars in front of the entrance. They immediately flip on the lights. One comes to the back passenger side and taps the window I'm leaning my face on with his flashlight. It takes all of my concerted effort to find and press the button to roll down the window. Officer looking at me with a mix of 98% disgust and 2% concern: Are you are aware that you puked all over yourself? Me: Officer, I am well aware of the fact that I puked all over myself. Officer: Oh. Well, go to bed immediately. I made it to 8:00 a.m business calculus the next morning only to drop the class a week later. I was going to wash the shirt, but I gave up on that idea when I tried to peel it away from the undershirt and saw chunks of stuff. That was the beginning of my illustrious college career.
So I won't bluster on and pretend to be a prodigious drinker. I spent a large portion of my younger life under 150 lbs and didn't drink in HS cause I was under the impression it was only for "cool kids", which I wasn't. A couple decent college stories but nothing that memorable. But one of my most sincere "I should probably be dead" stories happened last summer. My sister had her wisdom teeth out and didn't react favorably to her Vicodin, so she gave me the rest and told me to go nuts. I took one at my roommate's bday party, had a pair of gin and tonics, and felt fantastic. Loved the multiplier effect. So the next Saturday, the night was shaping up to be low key, so I popped another Vicodin and we went to the bar around the corner for a beer or two. During my first beer, a friend of mine sent me a text telling me to meet him at a club downtown as he had an ex fling in town and she had a supposedly slutty friend in tow. So I finished my beer, hoped in a cab and met up with them. Aforementioned friend was slutty hot, extremely friendly, and the owner of a pair of fake breasts that also appeared very friendly. We began drinking aggressively and I had completely forgotten about my medicinal head start. I think it was around the third shot that my body realized I was not Keith Richards and began to get upset. I vaguely recall sprinting to the bathroom where I undoubtedly pushed a glittery guido out of the way in order to puke up a quarter bottle of Grey Goose. I then, so I'm told, returned to the table where I asked for two pieces of gum which I aggressively chewed whilst slamming another drink before obnoxiously making out with Lil Miss Breast Enhancement for awhile. Around this time, she began actively campaigning for us all to adjourn to my buddy's apartment, presumably to live up to her slutty description. However, I was well blacked out and as we were leaving the club trailed a few steps behind. As they stopped outside in order for me to catch up and join them in a cab, I stumbled right past them, ignoring hands reaching out to me and my name being called and disappeared around the corner. I could be annoyed that someone didn't stop me, but then again, I'm an adult and they figured I was just being odd. What happened next is one of the few mulligans you get in life. I live approximately three quarters of a mile away from this club and we left around 3. My roommate heard me stumble and crash in shortly after 6. Why and how it took me over 3 hours to travel that distance home I have no idea. I have brief flashes of memory. You know that feeling of drunkeness when you try to walk but you can't do anything more than shuffle your feet? Yeah, I remember that and then the feeling of falling into a chain link fence. I also remember laying in grass and feeling powerless to move. The only other thing I remember is seeing my intersection from far away and then more darkness. My roommate found me the next morning when he went to the bathroom at 8 AM laying in my doorway where he checked my pulse and then went on with his morning. I can only surmise that I fell and passed out in the park on the way home. A park very near to the former Cabrini Green and in an area where vagrants are known to frequent. How I wasn't rapped, mugged, or just straight up had my pockets cut out and my wallet removed. The hangover the next day was prodigious and the news that my friend ended having to sexually entertain both females in my stead were painful enough, but I do consider myself quite fortunate.
Not my drunkest story, but it's got beer, puke and a shark fetus in a jar! I present...The Shark Fetus Story Spoiler It was almost winter, a few months after Ft. Awesome reached its peak of awesomeness. The night marked the end of The Fort, as we called it, and was dedicated to celebrating many nights of drunken debauchery, with another night of drunken debauchery. Brown and Flewell were the only two who actually paid to live in Ft. Awesome, but over the past two years it became a second, mostly weekend home to Danny, McKale, Tiff, Hailey and me. When we returned from nights out needing each other’s shoulders to stand, we happily bumped shoulders on Ft. Awesome’s floor once we fell. The apartment got crowded, but we always found room. There was the foam mattress – most coveted and often shared – the long couch – which McKale or I usually found – the short couch and of course, the spot under the air hockey table, where Danny sometimes slept sober. On the shelf beside the TV there was a glass jar with a beige foam base and a shark fetus floating in formaldehyde inside. Danny brought it back from Florida a year before, and we decided then that on the last night of The Fort, we would smash it and take funny pictures with the fetus. The last night would be a kind of reverse maiden voyage, and it was only a matter of time before we dared each other to drink the champagne. Having said our official goodbyes watching the hockey game two nights ago, we chug a beer outside the final Ft. Awesome location, and prepare for the night. The plan is to have a feed at BP’s, do what comes natural, and end up at the Lion’s Head Pub – a hotel bar that’s ended many nights out with mixed, blurry results. Hailey is already in the BP lounge, eating dinner with work friends; McKale, Flewell, Danny and Tiff are coming separately. I drive as Brown studies the fetus… “I wonder what it feels like. Do you think it’s solid?” “I’ve always thought it looked rubbery and soft. I bet it’ll cut like Blinky the Three Eyed Fish on The Simpsons, when Marge serves it to Mr. Burns.” Brown taps the jar. “I still can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl. There’s just a tiny hole.” “Well it’s a fetus, it probably hasn’t developed sex organs yet. And I’m pretty sure all male sea creatures have their sex organs inside until they’re aroused. You ever see a whale show on Discovery Channel? Friggin’ huge.” “I wonder how big this one would have got.” “You mean the shark or its penis?” We arrive to Hailey’s always smiling face sitting at a table of almost a dozen people, and a half dozen empty chairs. The servers seem too busy to confirm what we’re carrying, but Hailey’s workmates don’t hesitate to ask. We answer like proud, drunk parents. “It’s a shark fetus.” We let them hold our baby. “It would be almost sixteen months old if it wasn’t floating in a jar of formaldehyde.” They pass the jar around, still not sure why we brought it into the lounge, and give it back as our first pitcher arrives. We order another once Flewell greets the table. “Bitches, Hailey…” Flewell looks to Hailey’s left. “…people I don’t know.” Danny stumbles in confidently behind. “Tiff can’t make it. She’s really sick.” “You don’t look too fresh yourself.” “I pre-drank her share, so Flewell picked me up. I’ll be fine. Order me a glass of water and a Canadian. Where’s the can?” Danny finds the can and Flewell grabs the jar. “Tonight’s the night, you fucking fetus. Who wants nachos?” We order nachos and another pitcher. Our server studies the jar. “Are you guys celebrating something? “Yeah, today our buddy killed a pregnant shark with his bare hands. It got pretty intense so he’s on his way to go throw up in your washroom.” She takes both statements as jokes and clears our empties. We settle in and as the night goes on, we drink. Beer, mostly. The evening changes after we ask for the bill. “Guys, I’m really sorry, but I can’t stay for the finale.” Brown and I look at Hailey. She promised to stay sober and drive us, and the fetus, wherever felt natural. She also has the only camera. “You can still use my camera, and I’ll drive you from here, but I have to get home early tonight.” Given the many drunken promises our group made, and broke or forgot over the years, we aren’t upset at Hailey for breaking this one. We aren’t upset for not having a free ride either. We are upset because Hailey was there from the beginning and was now going to miss the end. She also takes really good pictures. Being such understanding and respectful friends, Brown and I try everything to guilt Hailey into staying. “You were here from the beginning, Hailey. We need you.” “It’s bad enough Tiff can’t make it. You gotta represent the Ft. Awesome girls.” “Has anyone seen Danny?” No one has, but finding him is more likely than Hailey taking pictures of us playing fetus-catch, a couple hours from now. “I’m sorry guys, something came up.” “We’ll pay for your meal.” Still smiling, she stands to go pay her share on debit. Brown rolls the jar on its base and we finish our beer, then leave the table and corner Hailey next to a booth. The couple sitting down takes notice as Brown shakes the jar in Hailey’s face. We are loud but unconvincing. “You can’t go! Tonight’s the night, Hailey – the fucking shark fetus night!” I grab Hailey by the shoulders and look her almost straight in the eyes. “Seriously Hailey, if you leave now, we’ll never speak to you again.” She’s laughing too hard to respond, and the couple has yet to call the manager, so we continue shouting and Brown continues shaking the jar. “Shark fetus!” “Pictures!” “You can smash it!” “You’ve got to at least be there when we smash it!” And with that the jar slips from its base and smashes on the floor between our feet. The couple stares and the lounge falls silent. Hailey, already hysterical, slips in formaldehyde and falls on her back. The fetus falls on my shoe. We look down. Hailey, laughing to the point of silence, leaves us to go clean up in the washroom, and maybe to check on Danny. Brown and I stand stunned, still trying to register the past ten seconds. The fetus begins soaking through my shoe when Brown finally speaks. “Oh, fuck.” The lounge stays silent and it feels like everyone is staring at us. I look at Brown. “Is everyone staring at us?” Brown scanns quickly. “Yah, pretty much. What do you think?” Time moves slowly. “I think bail.” “Yah alright…bail.” I flip the fetus off my foot and we leave, making eye contact with no one. We hold our laughter until we reach the door, then run behind the building and collapse laughing. We look up to see Danny waiting with a beer by the dumpster. “What happened to you guys in there?” We explained why we’d be without the fetus for the rest of the night, then ask Danny what happened to him in there. “I thought I was done puking, and I thought someone might call a manager, so I cleaned myself up and left. When I came out all the waitresses were looking at you guys yelling at Hailey and that couple, and I figured we’d be getting kicked out, so I grabbed a beer and left out the back. Turned out I wasn’t done.” Danny nods towards the bottom of the dumpster. “How long was I in there?” “Quite a while. We had nachos.”
I would probably call this my worst drinking story since I genuinely feel bad about how big of an asshole I was. However, it does seem to make people laugh, so here goes. It was valentine's day I believe 3 years ago and I didn't have a date so I joined all my other dateless friends and headed to the bar to drown our sorrows in booze and hopefully find some women who were doing the same. There are a number of people involved but the most important are me, my friend C, a girl who we'll call Abs, her friend who we'll call Weezy, a mutual friend we'll call Case, and another friend we'll call Tone. C and I, along with a few other irrelevants had a few drinks at his place since he lived walking distance from the bar. After a few drinks we went down to the bar and met up with other people, among whom were Abs and Weezy. I had known Abs but Weezy was new. Both are quite attractive. We were all drinking, me more heavily than others, I presume since I was definitely the most drunk person. I learned a little about Weezy from Abs and she had apparently broken up with a shitty boyfriend just a few days ago. My friend C noticed that Weezy was using some make-up to cover up what looked to be a black eye. So yeah, shitty boyfriend. Regardless, we were drinking and and having a good time and by the time closing time rolled around I was pretty much as drunk as one can be without blacking out and vomiting. Case invites us all back to his apartment which is located just a block or so away from the bar. We all head over and continue drinking and I'm trying to work some magic on Weezy and it's going well but I just have to find a way to separate her from Abs. The rest of this is pieced together from flickers of memory and next day accounts from friends. Apparently, Weezy was ready to head back to my friend C's house with me but Abs didn't want to let her go so after trying subtle hints I just started yelling at Abs to stop being a cockblock. At this point a portly woman who I didn't even know was there but apparently had been there the whole time came up to me and politely said, "Hey do you think you could keep it down, this is an apartment so there are neighbors and it's late." I casually responded by looking directly past her toward my friend and said, "Tone, why is a fat girl telling me what to do?" Tone-"Du... From another room unidentified voice screams, "THAT'S MY FUCKING WIFE!" I see him coming storming towards me. Tony gets in his way, turns his head and looks me dead in the eye and says, "Dude...run." This sobered me up for at least a second as I heeded his advice immediately, turned around, ran down the hallway, out the door, down 2-3 flights of stairs, out the door, and down the street. Somehow, I had the wherewithal to run towards C's house. At some point while running, I remember stopping and throwing up and continuing on. I got to C's house. No one knew what happened to me until C headed home and found me passed out on his porch swing. He woke me up, brought me inside and put me to bed. The next day I got a number of phone calls. Apparently, the dude whose wife I had insulted was trying to find out where I lived to come and kick my ass. Weezy thought I was a horrible person (deserved) and never wanted to see me again. I have other stories, of course. Like the time I stole a 40-50lb bar stool that looked like a cage and walked about 40 blocks back to my dorm in London, a city I had arrived in 2 weeks prior. There was the time I ordered milk at a bar after a pepper eating contest. The time I got on the wrong bus in Brooklyn to go home to Queens and ended up walking about 45 mins through Queensbridge to Astoria. The time I passed out and through up on myself on the path train, but I think those are just good stories...not the best.
I may or may not have told this before, and it's not my best, but at the time, I thought it was pretty awesome. I went to a party in college at an apartment complex on the first floor. My friends and I just kind of walked up and started drinking and talking, not really knowing anyone there. Some time passes, we get pretty drunk from innumerable games of beer pong, and the keg decides it's going to go and get itself empty. Everyone starts to go out on the back porch and into the parking lot to talk, so my friends and I all follow. I notice the second floor balcony has a keg on it, and me being pretty drunk, somewhat athletic, and looking to have some fun, climb up there to find out if I can keep this party going. I get up there, and lo and behold, the keg has a good 1/2-2/3 left in it, awesome. I pick it up with some unknown strength, heave it over the railing, and lower it down to my awaiting friends. The party starts to cheer when they see the beer flowing, and I feel like a hero. After some celebratory drinks, we leave the party and go out in town and have an otherwise uneventful night. The next day, we somehow find out that the renters of the apt that I stole the keg from find out it's gone, go downstairs, start yelling and eventually get into a fight with the guys downstairs and punching holes in their wall and door. Like I said, not my best, but it was still pretty fun. I could tell my two riot/tear gas stories, my nacho-fest story, or my St. Patrick's day threesome story, etc, but I'll save those for special occasions.