I've been drinking casually for a looooong time, but the first time I actually got really drunk I was 18. Me and my buddy got fairly hammered when we playd several games of beerpong and then watched The Simpsons Movie before passing out. However, the events leading up to the actual drinking were far more amusing than the actual drinking the first time. You see, we had been playing beerpong to break in the new beerpong table, and the new beerpong table was one that we had spent all day building. He had called me up a few days prior because he knew I'd taken a few woodshop classes in highschool and assumed that building boxes, toy cars, and paper towel holders meant I knew the ins and outs of building just about any wooden item. Of course, I didn't bother correcting him since I enjoyed the adulation and the thought of being useful. After all, it's just a fucking table, how hard could it be? I mean there's no reason I would even need to look up a guide on the internet, it's just a flat piece of wood with legs, right? So we drove down to the hardware store, but stopped along the way at the 99 cent store because I have a massive hardon for good deals. I wound up finding and buying a $0.99 swiss army knife before we'd even arrived at the actual hardware store and almost shit my pants at the value of such a useful tool for such a cheap price. Once inside the hardware store we shuffled around the store aimlessly for over two hours in total disarray, but in the end we wound up with: a 1/2"x4'x8' piece of plywood, a can of wood varnish, a large brush, a blowtorch, some screws, aluminium foil and this set of folding metal legs (I had been set on getting some wooden legs, but he liked the foldability and he had to live with the table so it was his choice) We were all excited to have all the materials together and to actually get to work, when we realized that there was one serious flaw in our plan. Namely, the plywood was far larger than the capacity of my friend's Camry to fit. We were seriously stumped for a while as to how the hell to get the board home when a passerby recognized our predicament and made the starkly obvious suggestion of tying the board to the roof. So I ran back to the store, grabbed a bunch of the free nylon rope they provide for just such a purpose, ran back, and haphazardly wrapped the rope over the front, back, and sides of the board and through the front and back windows of the car. Despite the fact that my friend had the nylon rope tugging at the back of his head while he drove, he and I were both elated to be on our way to one kickass beerpong table. Sadly this elation only lasted as far as the turn from the parking lot to the main road where our speed picked up and the stronger wind started to lift the board from the roof of the car. Both of us panicked in a moment of "Oh shit!" and we each reached out of our respective windows and grabbed the board with one hand to keep it on the roof. I shouted over the wind for him to "Slow the fuck down!" and he brought down his blinding pace from 35 mph to 25 mph. We crawled through the 50 mph roads at less than half the speed limit as cars zoomed past us, honking in fury like battle-crazed ducks. Our adrenaline was rushing as every passing car, every curve in the road, and every slight change in speed and direction seemed to be pulling the board off the roof. The drive that had taken us not even 5 minutes on the highway took us almost 20 minutes in this manner on surface streets. Eventually we got back to his place. Work was finally going to start, finally we were done with all the stupid prep. And then I realized that we didn't have a drill with which to drill pilot holes. Fuck. Hell, we didn't even have any nails or a hammer to do it that way either. So I sent my friend back to the store to rent a drill, and I set about carefully positioning the folding metal legs directly on the plywood and drawing where the holes would need to be drilled in order for the screws to hold the legs in place. Soon my friend was back, and he brought the drill. I drilled each of the screwing sites with the smallest drill bit, put the folding legs in place, and then grabbed some screws. It was at this point I realized that we didn't have a screwdriver, but I also realized that the $0.99 pocket knife I had bought had a phillips head attachment, so all was well. I pulled out the screwdriver tool on my pocket knife, set up a screw in one of the pilot holes, put the pocket knife screwdriver into the screw, started screwing, and stripped the fuck out of it. Not the screw, the screwdriver. My screwdriver fucking broke the first time I ever attempted to use it to screw. Fucking cheap piece of shit. (On a related note, months later I attempted to open a bottle of wine with the corkscrew attatchment on that same pocket knife, and after much struggle and yanking I realized that far from budging the cork I had basically turned the corkscrew into a long straight rod. Fucking A) Eventually I realized that the only part of that cheap piece of crap worth a damn was the knife itself, which was actually strong enough to withstand the rigors of screwing. That's right, I used the blade of my knife as a screwdriver out of necessity. Anyway, eventually all the screws are screwed, and the metal folding legs are directly attached to the plywood board. We're shitting our pants in excitement, this thing actually looks like a table! All that's left is to flip it over and start work on the table surface, so each of us grabs an end, flips the table over, and bam, the legs tear themselves out of the plywood. FUCKING FUCK. You see, the plywood was only 1/2" thick, and rather than thinking "Oh, well that affords barely any wood for the screws to hold on to, maybe we should brace it somehow or glue on some planks of wood at the screw sites to give firmer attachment to the screws" we thought "Well, I guess we just need to get smaller screws to fit into such a thin piece of plywood. 1/4" should do the trick!" Needless to say, the rest of the construction was plagued with the legs ripping themselves out any time anyone put any weight on the table, attempted to flip the table, or attempted to fold the legs. This table was a suicidally self-mutilating trainwreck, and yet each time the legs ripped out we would dutifully reattach them slightly off center so the new screwings would hit fresh, unmutilated plywood. It was at the point of flipping over, and completing the structural integrity portion of the construction, that we moved on to far more important matters, namely cosmetic matters of the table. My friend had wanted to paint the table so that it had permanent markings for the aiding in the nonfunctionally-drunk beerpong experience, in other words a triangle outline for where the cups go and racing stripes along the sides because racing stripes make the table go faster. I, however, expressed my true belief in the awesomeness of burning wood in the stead of another type of finish. He immediately saw the light, and agreed that we should set the table on fire. Although obviously we couldn't just use masking tape like for the painting, since the masking tape was flammable and wouldn't prevent the torch from burning underneath it. Eventually after much pondering and consideration the guy who worked the rental counter at the hardware store suggested we just use aluminium foil. Of course! Genius! And so that is what we did. Unfortunately, there were several problems that came up. The prime problem was that even though the foil successfully blocked the torch from directly burning the wood where we didn't want it to burn, the blowtorch was so hot that it caused the foil to melt and deform, which caused the straight-edge lines to become wavy and approximate-at-best. The other problem was simply the fact that the torch flame was so small and concentrated while the total surface area to be burned was immense. Spend too long on a spot and you got a black scorch mark, but spend too little time and you don't get the enhanced contrast of mild toasting. It took over 6 hours of incredibly painfully slow burning to get the whole table top done with such a tiny flame, and there were dozens of spots where I accidentally scorched a black mark into the wood through carelessness and impatience. In the end the whole thing took a massive amount of effort, but wound up looking like complete shit anyway. We played beerpong on it anyway and got blasted, but the table took up the whole of my friend's living room and when we tried to put it outside to varnish the whole thing the legs tore themselves out again for the eighth time and we just fucking abandoned it. God fucking dammit, what an abortion of a project. And there was this Mexican gardener who took great delight in laughing at our stupidity throughout the whole fiasco, although he didn't have too many reservations about asking to try the torch out and putting four black scorch marks into the wood while "helping" us burn it. Also I sort of lost the impression of competence my friend assumed I had. Fucking fuck. On the plus side the Simpsons Movie was exponentially funnier while smashed.
I was blessed to have a thirty something gutter punk as my mentor as an adolescent. Having grown up in a beer liberal home, I wasn't a stranger to having a beer or two (to this day I have never gotten shit faced on beer, my record is 27 at a kegger when I was 17 or 18), but I was introduced to liquor one fine summer day in my 14th year. Up until this point my intoxicants of choice were cheap weed, Schlitz Red Bull 40s and 22s of Honey Brown. We used to drink in the parking lot of Oxford Square on Monroe Ave. up in Rochester, NY (surprisingly easily found a picture here) killing the days, and our brain cells till the sunset. I was too stupid to realize how scummy or dumb this was at the time, and was having too much fun hanging out with the dregs of the avenue. I split a bottle of cheap vodka with my GG Allin inspired mentor, quickly mixed my half with some orange soda thinking it would work as well as OJ, and took my seat on the curb under the shade of the tree on the right. My 130lbs. ass downed that half bottle of vodka in about ten minutes. I remember the creeping, 'oh shit,' sensation still to this day. Next thing I know the church folks came by handing out pamphlets, trying to save our souls and I began berating them the best my stupid ass could. I was metal, Christians were my mortal enemy. Church burning Scandinavians were as bad ass as it got if you asked me, and I thought I was one bad mother fucker. It was time for me to shine by being a bad mother fucker... until the spins came. I stumbled back into the parking lot and fell down, puking my guts out on my hands and knees. This didn't sit well with anyone, and I was getting screamed at to get up and over behind a dumpster. All of these guys could give a shit less about me, they were literally heroine addict, pan handling, tatted up, gutter punk ass holes. I remember getting a couple kicks and dragged out of the flow of parking lot traffic. Luckily for me, my guy came out the back of the restaurant on the square where he was washing dishes to smoke, and felt somewhat responsible for the condition my ass was in. He began bringing me water, as his two dogs sharing his sympathy, moseyed on over and laid down on the asphalt with me/on top of me. He found one of my friends and they set up a fire line, keeping the glasses of water flowing over to me. While I laid there I got a couple more kicks, told I was gonna make the cops show up, spit on, but the highlight... this one particular Hepatitis ridden scum bag, and I still remember clearly, stood over me and said, "If those dogs weren't on you, I'd be taking a piss on you right now." The massive forced hydration along with vomiting up several internal organs, had me back on my feet in an hour or two, and I stumbled home for a long sleep. I have drank vodka twice since this day almost 14 years ago, and even in my drinking prime, it has made me sick both times. Vodka is for the devil and women.
No, Vodka is great, Goldschlager was invented by the devil. The first time I got really shit faced and puked was because of it. When I was a freshman in college, Goldschlager was different than it is today. It used to be around 110 proof and is now around 80. I was(and still am God Damn it) 120 pounds and very early in my drinking. 9 shots in around 40 minutes and my world was spinning. Took a few more sips from a Vodka drink and knew I had to go puke. The last think I remember is walking down the hall bouncing from one side to the other.
The first time I ever got drunk was January 1, 2000. I remember it vividly because my Mom still hasn't let me live it down. Even 10 years later when I bring up drinking around her, she always manages to bring up my 'New Years' experience. I was 14. It was Y2K and I had just gotten home from a sober NYE party at a girl named Amber's house. I had spent the entire night up to this point trying to pursuade my then girlfriend that we should go into another room and have sex. I tried to use the whole Y2K thing to my advantage saying, "C'mon, don't you want to start a new decade making love to me?" Suffice to say it didn't work. My Dad picked me and my friend up from the party, and when we got home I asked my Dad if Troy and I could have a beer or two from the fridge. He had no objection, so Troy and I bee-lined to the fridge and started drinking beer. One beer quickly turned to seven, and before I knew it was fucking hammered. I was dizzy, and my motor-skills were totally out of wack. What a feeling! We then started swigging hard liquor from my Dad's liquor shelf downstairs. I had never tasted the likes of whiskey, vodka and gin before, and needless to say my first experience was a rather pleaseant one. I ended up going to sleep downstairs in the spare room, and the last thought I had while falling asleep was, "Holy Fuck am I dizzy." I woke up an hour later, sprinted to the bathroom and spent the next half-hour puking up my life. My Mom came downstairs because she heard the noise, and watched me for five minutes. When I finally stopped she looked at me and said, "That's what you get. You'd better clean this bathroom in the morning." I woke up the next morning with my sheets covered in my own piss and vomit. My Mom came into check on me and had to leave the room because the smell was so foul. To this day, I cannot stand the smell of Pinesol because that's the stuff I used to clean the entire bathroom after the incident. I wish I could say that my drinking has matured somewhat, but I'm still prone to the occasional 'bed puke.'
Here's the explanation to the Jack Daniels incident since it was both my first time getting shit faced and I've had some people ask questions about it. I was 15 at the time and it was with the same crew from Chater's story plus a couple more people. While it wasn't my first time drinking whisky, when I had my first two shots of it something felt a little off taste wise so I decided to take it slow. Now the guys knew I could hold my liquor well but decided to call me out on it. Now I wouldn't have any of it. No, no one was questioning the massive balls I thought I had when it came to liquor especially when I had done the liquor run. On a small side note at 15 I looked 20, and being able to grow a full beard didn't help so I did most of our runs. With that, I accepted their challenge, looked around, opened my throat and in a matter of seconds downed the pint to a unanimous "holy shit, you fucking moron." Silly bitches, I had won the first round. I was fine (normal drunk) for about an hour after that too. I remember talking to one guy about sports, ogling at one girls boobs, and giving some life lessons to everyone that was there. Then the shit storm hit when I made it to Tim Hortons (Canadian equivalent of Dunkin Donuts). All I remember is some very deep voices saying "he doesnt look tooooooooo-" and then I smash my head on a table, feel my chest and pants get very warm, which I later found out was puke, and then black out. Next thing I remember is waking up for a few seconds with Chater kicking me repeatedly in the back. His excuse to this day is that he thought I was a log. Then I met his girlfriend and tried to say hello while covered in puke but apparently sounded and looked like a bog monster. Then there was random picnic table which I was put on for a few minutes where I clearly remember hoping I wouldn't get eaten by a bear. Fast forward a few hours when I get sent home in the care of another black out drunk to find my grandparents who had flown in from the other side of the globe to surprise me two days before my birthday. The parents were horrified, my mother was crying, my grandma was force feeding me water and my grandpa was laughing his ass off saying how proud he really was.
The first time I ever got drunk was when I was fourteen, somewhat accidentally, with my father and a group of masonry workers after a long day of bricking the face of my home, which we were building at the time. The bricklayers were friends that my father used to work with when he was younger, so that were helping us at a very minimal cost. To thank them, my father bought a keg of Yuengling for everyone to enjoy at the end of the day. Because I spent all day mixing mortar and carrying buckets of it and tongs of brick up the scaffolding for them, doing "man work," I was given a cup and allowed to have a beer with everyone. All the men, using the logic "you're young, you have fresh legs, go get my a refill," gave me their cups to replenish as they lounged in their chairs. So, on each trip, I would chug the rest of my beer and fill myself up as well. Well...it didn't take that long. Before probably an hour had passed, I was sitting in the chair, my head wobbling in little circles, and because I was seeing double I was watching everybody with one eye closed and a stupid smile on my face. One of the men pointed to my Dad and said, "better see about your boy." My dad takes a look and me and says, "is there something wrong with your eye?" I kind of grin and point to my eye, the OPEN one, and say "...this eye?" And he knew. "Shit," he said. So he took me back the house we were still living at, told me to get a shower and lay down, and under no circumstances talk to my mother. I fell twice in the shower. Naked, I go and laid down on the bed. And, sure enough, there were the spins. I threw up all over my bed, all over the floor, and passed out in it. That was how my mother found me. She went downstairs to accost my father. "Do you know that your son is drunk?" she asked. "NO!" my father exclaimed, trying to act surprised. It failed. I spent all night drinking water and dry heaving. Come morning, my mother came in and gave me some Tylenol and toast. And you best believe I was up at sunrise the next morning to work with those guys again. They all thought it was funnier than hell, and I got shit for it all day. *** Not me, but I was there to witness this. At that same age, I went down the street to visit my best friend Ian, and our other good friend, Mike. Ian's parents were gone, and Ian decided it steal a bottle of booze and go drink it in the woods. It was a bottle of Kahlua. They were drinking it straight. Yeah. Sure enough, they killed the whole bottle. And they were hammered. Mike, being a drunk and silly teenage badass, grabbed a dead branch off the ground and head-butted it, snapping it in two. Ian decided to one up him. He grabbed a log off the ground, a big one, with a knot on the side of it. He headbutted it as hard as he could, and it was an awful sound. He dropped it, and I saw that he had jammed the knot right into his forehead. Blood started to pour down his face, and there was a big gash centered right over his eyebrows. Me and Mike are staring at him, shocked. Ian just starts giggling, and wiping the thick streams of blood off his face. I went and looked into the cut. I'm not positive that it was his skull that I saw, but it wasn't skin or muscle and it was kind of gray. "You need to go to the hospital," I said. Ian just kind of giggled again. When I repeated it he told me he couldn't, because then his parents would know what he had done. As if the gaping wound across his drunken face wouldn't draw attention. His solution? He walked down to the garage, and came back with a roll of duct tape. Taking off one of his shoes, he pulled off his sock and slapped it over the cut. Then he proceeded to duct tape it to his forehead, having Mike wind the duct tape around his entire head once and twice, hair and all. I left after that. Ian's parents weren't the nicest people to see when they were mad about even little things, like not making your bed. I did not want to be around for that. From what I remember though, I think he got the shit beat out of him for that. To this day, if you run your fingertips over his skull, there is a nice noticeable dent. My friends are fucking intelligent, I tell you.
The first time I got drunk was at my cousin's house when I was 14. He was having a party and I told my parents that my aunt and uncle would be home. The party was on some of their land and we had a big bonfire that some drunk fuck tried to jump over at one point in the night (unsuccessfully might I add, but he didn't spill his beer.) I got drunk on approximately 3 beers, Apple Pucker, and my uncle's homemade wine. Do not underestimate the power of homemade wine. After the party had dispersed my cousin and I thought it would be a good idea to drive around, at least we were smart enough to stop the car to light our cigarettes. This was also the first and last time that I've been blackout drunk. The last thing I remember from that night was stopping to light a cigarette. I woke up sleeping on the bathroom floor.
Re: The first time I ever got drunk In the Bahamas, with my Uncle, when I was 18 years old on Rum and Coke. I drank four and was ready to pass out. The next night I even tried tequila. I even talked to a girl, THAT was huge. The first time I got shitfaced wasn't until a year later when I spent the summer on Mackinac Island, Michigan and my roommates and I polished off a fifth on the beach as the sun set. We crashed our bikes in front of the church and the priest came out to see if we were OK, and that was when I met father Paul, who was awesome. Then we went back to the living area, threw food against the wall in the cafeteria, I threw up in the bathroom, passed out and gained my second wind. Man, we were young, wild, and free. That night we went to a bar, I danced with a cute girl from Oklahoma, I took her back to a booth to make out, I froze up, couldn't even say a word and bolted out of the bar for my bike and went home. There is a very good reason I didn't drink heavily until I was 19 - there was a lot of things I wasn't doing at that age.
The first time I got drunk was on new years eve when I was 12. My cousin and I both got our allotted 2 glasses of champagne, then stole a bottle of asti and polished it off. We were pretty silly, and ended up going on a 2 am donut run with my uncle Bob. I think he knew what was up. But thus began the tradition of uncle Bob taking us out for drunk donuts on new years. This was the first year we managed to get him drunk too, though, so we had to walk. Silly drunk 65 year old math professor.
My first time getting maggoted was at a high school friends party when I was 15 or 16. I'd never really drank much before, and the concept of not mixing drinks was a foreign one. We got to the party early and started drinking VBs (vile swill that purports to be beer) in the back yard. Now this stuff tasted like ass, but hey it was free and alcoholic so I didn't care. The night progressed and somewhere in there I started drinking a mates' Jim Beam and my own vodka that I'd brought. Several hours later I was laying on a trampoline staring at the stars when some bright sparks decided it would be fun to have a bounce. This didn't agree well with my stomach which responded accordingly, leaving me bobbing in my own filth. Somehow I managed to get off the tramp, and decided to lean against the fence for a bit, where I hurled some more. A friend came to check on me some time later, and I kindly advised him that sitting down where he had was probably not a good idea. Eventually one of my mates called my mum to pick us up (she was going to anyway) while trying to bullshit that I was 'sick'. Obviously this didn't work, and she rocked up with a bucket ready in the car and a sharp tongue to boot. I got home, showered and passed out on my bed. The following morning I woke up and realised I'd come home in somebody elses clothes. Apparently I was cold and someone had changed my top and dressed me in a really warm jumper, though I never did find out who. To top it off, another guy was doing a media studies project on teenagers and alcohol or some such crap and had a video camera there. There were a few shots in his final project featuring a certain incoherent blubbering fool trying to hold up the fence and fertilse the lawn at the same time, though unfortunately he never got a shot of me and my puke on the trampoline.
My first time was two weeks ago in Italy (I know, I'm a little late to the party). I drank a half of a bottle of limoncello and had a good time. I walked around the streets of Naples with a few friends laughing and talking a whole lot. The rest of the trip was a slippery slope of vodka and gin and tonics that built up to becoming an angry and bitter drunk who sat in the bottom of some club in Florence slurring profanities and threating the lives of those around me. Everyone on our trip was given a nickname for their drunk personas, I had several. First was grubmister, who was cool to hang out with and had fun. Then came grubolini who was paranoid and angry but still reasonable. Finally there was grudolf who was extremely belligerent, angry, and full of hate.
It was New year's Eve, 1980, and the folks went out to party. My buddy and I spent the night watching comedy specials on HBO and drinking gin and orange flavored Hi-C. We both got sick as dogs, and were asleep/passed out before they came home. 30 years later he still hates gin.
I was maybe ten years old, and my brother was having a party with his friends in the basement one night. When my parents went to bed, I snuck downstairs to hang out with the big boys. My brother and his friends were playing beirut, and they thought it would be hilarious if I played, and I was on top of the world to be hanging out with the guys. Obviously I was a natural, and my brother and I won our first two games, but then I was starting to get a little goofy. fast forward two beers (4 total) and I was puking my brains out in the back yard before I crawled inside and passed out right inside the door. my brother must have carried me upstairs or something, because I woke up the next morning in my bed, no hangover.
I was somewhat late to the drinking party and got drunk for the first time after senior year of high school, so I was 17 and stupid. I had my older sister's ID and I bought a shitload of hard liquor for my friend's house party (it was held at her aunt's house, which she was housesitting). I think I probably bought like 8 bottles of random liquor for about a dozen teenagers - always a recipe for disaster. I thankfully didn't puke, but most of my girlfriends did, so it was my first experience doing the "take-care-of-puking-girl-all-night" nonsense. We destroyed that house in 3 nights of partying and I even had sex in the little girl's bedroom. Pretty creeptastic of me, but I was drunk so I didn't care that I was looking at Barbie while getting my socks rocked. .
The legal drinking age over here is 16, but they sell alcohol to anyone who can pass for a fourteen year old, or at least they used to a few years ago. The first time I got drunk I was 15, now this wasn't the first time I was drinking, but probably up till now this was the worst experience involving alcohol. Some friends and I bought a few bottles of wine from a small convenience store, the lady behind the counter would only sell us wine, so we asked for the cheapest wine (big mistake.) Half an hour later we're all sitting down drinking from bottles of red wine. This wine isn't having any effect on us, so we proceed to drinking a good amount of wine, under a few minutes. This wine doesn't have any effect on me, not until I try to stand up and I realize I can't feel my legs. However, not to be outdone by my friends I keep drinking till I drink a bottle and a half of this awful, warm red wine. A few hours later, I'm at home, laying down on my bed, thinking I'm about to die, everything around me seems to be moving, the ceiling included. I try to throw up, but I can't. I was really scared, this was something I had never experienced before, so I try to remember any hangover cures or what to do if you're drunk and suddenly I came up with a "great idea", I remember someone telling me that if you drink a glass of milk before you start drinking, you'll be alright, so my drunken logic tells me that if it helps if you drink milk before you start drinking, it should help if you drink the milk afterward. Awful mistake. Result - I still can't believe that a person has the ability to vomit that much. I still keep away from red wine, if I can help it.
The first time I ever got drunk, I ended up in the fetal position in the middle of a cornfield. I have no explanation for this.
This is gonna be bad. First time getting drunk I was 16 and I had just gotten back into wrestling so I was partying with pretty much the whole team at 2 of the guys grandparents house, well we were in RV about 30 yards away. I remember we started the festivities with thumper needless to say I was a lightweight I felt my buzz after 3 beers, I wish I could remember what we were drinking that night but I have to say its disappeared from my memory along with a lot of brain cells. So while this was going on the captain of the team and the girl he was banging are getting it on in the house, I know this because when he came back he had a tape for us to watch...yes that's right he set up a camera without the girls knowledge. Everyone pretty much watched it to see the chick get naked I think but even she was getting into it, after the goods were out we went back to playing thumper. Later on during the night I got pretty messed up but here's the list of everything I remember while the beer chugging was going on: -I did my first mosh pit -Told a girl to punch me in the face...she did and I laughed -I got stapled with a big staple gun a couple times. Note MTV's "Jackass" was an inspiration to us I think lol. -I jumped out the RVs window a couple times -I think one of my friends passed out in the fire...pretty sure it was the same party -One of the guys there was so drunk he took a shit on our cooler which was write outside the RV BTW -The guy who shit on the cooler was eventually throw off of it onto the ground while another took a shovel and picked up some of his shit and snow and dumped it back onto his bare ass -One of the guys puked all over the carpet in the grandparents house...did I mention they were home at this point I woke up the next morning on the floor of the RV with a tiny blanket freezing my ass off. I had a headache but that was about it, how I miss the days of drinking and not getting hang overs.