The worst alcohol-fueled debacle I've ever commanded
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(reposted for the Monday morning crowd)
Just about everyone has a story or two of a time they got themselves into such a bad fix with booze that they seriously considered never drinking again. Of course this is almost always a passing whim and usually doesn't last past the next smart opportunity to get shitfaced. I certainly know in my heart I'm going drink to excess again...most likely in the very near future. Nevertheless, this is one of those stories. No, that's an understatement. This is my be all, end all, holy shit did-I-really-fucking-do-that story.
Okay, so Friday night started innocently enough when I met two friends at the Hush Hush for 25 cent Pabsts. Helluva deal, need to do it more often. We put back 4 pitchers in the next hour and a half, no big whoop, and lost one member of our cadre in the process. At this point I briefly mused that I've never had an overwhelmingly good experience on a night when I drank without eating dinner, but that thought passed quickly with the next pint. I mean, what's the worst that could happen? I tend to get a little beligerent when I drink on an empty stomach, but our party was small and I planned on making it an early evening, so whatever. We had a few more drinks to make our lives that much more fun. My current level of inebriation could be described as "speaking and balancing successfully, but dangerously fired up."
After we left The Hush Hush my sense of for personal safety and well-being kicked in and I declared that I was going to eat a piece of pizza. Now, anyone who has a general understanding of metabolism and boozing and eating knows that it was already far too late for me. What I find most remarkable is that I know this - I know it well - as evidenced by the fact that I'm telling you now. I suppose I thought eating something was better than nothing, even though I was already pretty far in the bag. So we went to trusty old Cable Car Pizza where I ate half a slice. A whole fucking half goddamn slice of za. As I had no doubts that all risk to my person was eradicated by this pearl of strategy, we continued on our way to more drinking. By the way, if you saw a drunk, woo-hoo-ing idiot sprinting as fast as he could through traffic at 16th and Valencia Friday night, that was me. He's smart and he's a showman!
To wit, another drink at Kilowatt and we were on our way to further adventures. Now I was most definitely ripped. I stumbled with my friend into the bar up the street. The cute bartender I have a crush on was working, which was a stroke of luck because I was really in my best form. After practically screaming to my buddy how hot she was while she was all of three feet away from me, I sucked down a couple scotches. This was to be my last consumption of the evening. Though the details that immediately followed are somewhat of a mystery to me, apparently I just got up and left, declaring I didn't know what my friend was going to do but I was going to fucking bed.
Good for you! You've made it this far in an otherwise uneventful story of some moron’s drunken evening. What follows is most definitely the payoff.
After getting home it was time to pay the piper. This was the moment I pretty much set into stone with the first pitcher from three and a half hours earlier. Barely able to stand, I began to unleash a torrent of puke the likes of which I hadn't seen since the college days of drinking a fifth by myself for sport. As a career heaver, I pride myself on being able to hit the toilet no matter how blacked out I am. The problem here was that I was so far in the bag I couldn't stand up, which makes it really hard to aim the puke. Also, it was dark. Remember that.
I guess it was from so much pressure on the system, or maybe it was simply a complete and total lack of physical control, but the next thing I know I'm shitting uncontrollably. No warning, no idea, and my pants are fucking filled with mud. My diet for the evening of booze and cheese probably weren't doing me any favors either. My main problem of many is that I can't stop puking while this is happening. The only possible escalation for this situation would have been if I actually spontaneously combusted. My subconscious recoiling in horror, I try to pinch off the flow before the trouble reaches ground level. Too late, I've just shat on the carpet. I repeat, there is fucking doo doo on the rug. Look at me now, ma! You'd be so proud of your son! 27 years old and he's SHITTING ON THE CARPET. Jesus. And whoda thunk it took dexterity to clean it up? No motor skills = basically just mashing the poo into the rug. Falling down repeatedly doesn't help either.
I guess this total voiding of all body cavities must've brought me to a higher level of lucidity, because I did the only sensible thing. I got in the shower with all my clothes on and tried to regroup. My falling down problem persisting, though, I almost crashed through the glass shower door a couple of times before I got all my duds off. I might have taken a nap in the tub, but details on that are sketchy. I cleaned myself and my clothes as much as I could and called it a night. Whew!! That was hard work and I was ready for some serious sleep. Hooray I make it to my bed and pass the fuck out.
Hours pass. I am awoken from my black hole of dreamless booze slumber by the alarmed yells of my roommate. He bursts into my room and asks what the fuck happened in his room. I have no idea. Hell, I have no idea how I got to this point in the evening, how I got home, nothing. I follow him to his room and stare in wide-eyed horror at his bed, which is completely covered in vomit. His faux fur, $400 Pottery Barn bullshit comforter, is swimming in hurl. I consider ways to pawn responsibility off on someone else. No dice. This situation staring me in the face is a complete mystery to me. You know how a lot of times you black out but you can put the pieces back a little, bit by bit? Maybe with a visual aid or someone relaying a part of the story? Nope, not this time. I have no idea what fucking happened here. Well, I know what happened, but I have no recollection of it happening here. I take the comforter and other affected items in a wad to my bathroom, the scene of earlier crimes. My equilibrium problems are still going strong, so I bounce off a few walls on the way, leaving a stink trail down the hall. Hey, those are my pants hanging on the shower door! Why are they soaking wet? Oh riiiiight...yeahhhhh...hmmmmm. I don't waste time thinking about the wallet in the toilet (???) and proceed to the removal of solid waste from the comforter. I feel bad for the shower at this point. I'm sure it didn't sign up for this duty when it first came aboard.
So that's it. I wake up early Saturday morning, still partly in the bag, to rotate laundry and take exhibits A and B to the dry cleaner. I'm told this is going to cost $97...$97 tagged onto an evening that started with 25-cent beers.