Monday, May 24, 2004
You’d Think I’d Know the Plane Was Going to Crash Before I Boarded . . . Each and Every Time
By popular demand, I bring you the cautionary tales of my youth. Hopefully you denizens of The Internet haven’t read too many of these (mine, anyway). So, without further adieu, the Top Five:
Number Five: It was the weekend after my 19th birthday, on which my father had asked my mother for a divorce. A few of my (older) McDonald’s coworkers “kidnapped” me for a night of drinking, to help me get my mind off the grand finale of my parents’ failed marriage. One of my kidnappers was the older swing manager who had propositioned me. (We’ll call her Christy; another one of my kidnappers was “dating” Christy.) We went to someone’s apartment and started drinking Hurricanes. Somehow, the reading of Trivial Pursuit playing cards became part of a drinking game. After two 32-ounce Hurricanes, I was lying on the floor, talking to a cat. I woke up the next morning curled up on a couch with “I (Heart) Christy” written on my arm in eyeliner. Someone dropped me off at my car in the McDonald’s parking lot . . . where I spent 10 or 15 minutes dry-heaving.
Number Four: On this particular night, we were drinking Goldschlagger. Out of tumblers. I was ringleader for the oral administration of the Purity Test (a 400-question version). After we finished that (or were too bored to continue), we went out to a bar. Now, up to this point, I’d only been drinking Goldschlagger, so I was pretty drunk but feeling great. I decided to have a beer (Killian’s, to be exact). After one sip of beer, I felt my stomach begin to gurgle. “I’m going to sit in the car.” Everyone came out eventually for the journey back to our starting point. Anyone who tried to talk to me was met with “Shoosh” or “Shoosh, please.” By the time we got back to the house, I was too nauseous to move. One of my friends was trying to make me feel better and get me into the house. He finally convinced me to try to get out of the car. On the count of three, I opened the car door. At that point, everything went into stop-motion, and I watched the ground getting closer and my vomit spilling onto it just before my face hit. The host’s dog came to lick vomit off my pants.
Number Three: There are several drinking stories that have been recounted here (in my various ‘blog incarnations). And several that have not. A few of those are interesting and/or disasterous enough to be tied for the third-worst ever. Like the time I tried to go beer-for-beer with our drummer before / during / after a show and ended up peeing in my carport (which was flooded from rain) and then throwing up the next morning. Or the time I drank too much Captain Morgan’s and Hawaiian Punch and almost passed out (twice) driving home. Or the first time I had rum and coke and declared, “Thith tastesth juth like apple juith!” What about the time I played Three Man and woke up in the early morning hours to go to the bathroom . . . in the corner of our bedroom? There was also a time where you might ask how you get from me standing in the hallway in my tightie whities, yelling, “I’LL GO DOWN ON ANYONE!” to me being subdued by one of my closest friends, who I’d sucker-punched in the face only seconds earlier (it’s not a straight line, by the way). And who can forget the time I washed down two ephedrine with a dozen or so shots of vodka, tried to pee in a closet in front of a couple lesbians, and was used for wrestling practice?
Number Two: A local radio station sponsored a Wednesday-night drink special (in 1995) at Fat Tuesday’s (when it was open). It was called the “X Drink” and, like most drinks at Fat Tuesdays, it was a daiquiri. They wouldn’t tell you what was in it, and you could only have one. So, of course, I had to try it. Besides, Michelle was driving, so what could go wrong? Well, a lot. First of all, the drink was black and most certainly had tequila in it. But I dutifully drank it all, and took my oft-used Fat Tuesday’s cooler-cup back to the car. Then we ventured onto another club where, feeling no ill affects of the X Drink, I ordered two 50-cent kamikazes. And followed those with two more. I blacked out while dancing within half an hour. When I came to, Michelle was driving me home. And I was vomiting out the door of the car. Upon arriving home, I crawled toward the front door of my mom’s duplex while Michelle assured my mother that I was okay.
Number One: It was sometime around my birthday . . . I forget which. There were four of us. We bought a 24-pack of Killian’s from Sam’s Club and a liter of Captain Morgan’s. We topped our purchase off with a variety of chasers. The four of us sat at a table and systematically passed the bottle around (chug, chaser, pass bottle) until it was all gone. Then we started a beer challenge. Mr. ADD and I were going to go beer-for-beer. I poured two beers into a 32-ounce cup and went to work. I passed out a little while later. My friend brought me back into the world by hosing me down in his front yard. (Apparently, I was covered in my own vomit, which I’d released to create a lake on the hardwood floor.) After hosing me off, he led me on a walk around the block so I could dry off . . . and dry out. After the first lap around the block, I fell to my hands and knees to vomit some more; he helped things along with a firm kick to my stomach. I slept on his couch. The next morning, a Mr. ADD and I met a group of our friends who were driving to the beach. So, I went to the beach wearing all black, with dried vomit stains on the legs of my pants.
Gulp, gulp. The End.