John Goodman and a Parking Garage Kicked My Ass
My day was going along just fine. I got some presents, I got some cards, I got some free lunch. I even got a banana cream pie (complete with a whole banana stuck, penis-like, right in the middle with two cherries underneath because I guess my reputation as a pervert has gotten out). All in all, it was a pretty good birthday, until 4:00 pm.
Before you read this story, I just want you to know that I was not drunk when The Incident happened. I got shit-faced after The Incident, but when it all went down I was not drunk. So let the record show that.
Because the brakes on my car decided to go out ever so fortuitously the day before my birthday, I was borrowing my friend's boyfriend's Jeep Liberty (let me add, brand new) to go to the gym. I couldn't find any parking on the street, so I decided to park in the parking garage down the street. This decision will be known from here on out as Big Freakin' Mistake.
My friend is a snowboarder, so strapped on top of his brand new Jeep Liberty were some brand new snowboards and a brand new tule rack. I didn't feel the need to think of the roof of the car, however, as I completely ignored the clearance sign on the overhead pillar of the garage and blissfully drove in. (Most likely you can see where this story is going. Too bad I couldn't.)
No, I just drove in at a nice clip, down the little ramp under the overhang and...stopped short, wheels spinning, a sickening cracking sound reverberating through the garage. For good measure, I tried to go forward again, you know, just to make sure that the car was completely lodged under the overhang, wedged nice and tight. Cue more sickening cracking sounds.
Horrible story short, Triple A ended up having to let the air out of all the tires in order to unwedge the car. Yep, when I fuck up, I go all out. I crack snowboards, I scratch tules, I break the seals on sun roofs, I deflate tires, I piss off friends. I'm thorough like that.
Let's just say my friend hates me, her boyfriend hates me even more, and my dad hates me to infinity and beyond. You can't blame me for getting gutter-drunk last night.
I am so hungover, I'm surprised my head is still attached to my body. At some point last night, as I was crawling on my hands and knees to the bathroom and promising all the deities known to man that I would never drink again and claiming "this time I really, really promise I mean it," I swear I puked my head right off my body. That sounds really disgusting in the light of day, but that's how it felt at 3 am.
I made the mistake of challenging a big fat man to a tequila shot-off. Boy did I get served. My ass was handed to me and it had been sufficiently violated. Being drunk can sometimes be like an out-of-body experience. Your sane, normal self floats above your drunken foolish ass, observing the shenanigans in silent horror. My temperate self was stuck in a pose similar to The Scream by Edvard Munch, as my boozy self challenged a man who looked suspiciously like John Goodman to a drinking contest. I distinctly remember my sober side mouthing, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING."
Needless to say, I will never drink again. Okay, I'll never drink tequila again. All right, I'll never drink A LOT of tequila again. Fine. I'll never challenge John Goodman to a drinking contest again. For a couple of months anyway, since that will be about how long it will take me to stop being hungover.