I've mentioned it before.
And, I've decided that it's time for another horror story.
I've only been drunk to the point of sickness four times. I've already mentioned three.
The fourth was the most recent, and as far as horror stories go, isn't that bad. I always tell people I'm a fast learner. And I think that's the only reason this one turned out relatively okay.
A few months ago, my bartender buddy and I made plans to hit the (small) town he lives in hard. I was in town for work, so it wasn't even a weekend.
It was a Wednesday. There was only one club even open to go to.
I invited a few people I'd met recently to join us for some schooners to start off the night.
I just tried to look up 'schooner' to show how big that fucking glass is.
Maybe it's a local thing.
The Houston Pizza here sells $5 schooners every night. Draught beer in a giant beer mug.
The things are so big, they're hard to lift.
My right bicep is about twice the size of my left from lifting them.
No, that's not from masturbating, those muscles are lower down. I checked.
Each schooner holds close to two liters of beer - about three beer bottles worth.
I downed three.
My buddy said that he had a few other friends he wanted to meet up with at another pub, and I decided I wanted to eat something that didn't suck (food at Houston Pizza is pretty awful), so we all bounced to the pub.
I got another schooner.
And now, we had a full table of people drinking with us. My buddy's inner bartender came out and he ordered shots.
And more shots.
There was a new tray of shots every time the old shot glasses were removed.
We were only there for an hour.
I split the bill for shots with my buddy 50%. I paid $195.00
I didn't even know what the shots were. There was the taste of Jack Daniels in some. Vodka in others.
Each tray was a different color. It was a rainbow of drunk. A veritable cornucopia of bad decisions.
I don't remember how we got to the club, but we double-fisted jagerbombs as soon as we walked in.
Bank account evidence suggests I pulled out another $200 for drinks when we got there. I don't remember pulling it out, or spending it. I only had a twenty in my pocket the next morning.
The place was packed, and I remember thinking to myself, "Who parties on a Wednesday?" Then, I threw my hand in the air and yelled, "I DO!"
People stared at me.
I gave a loud whoop and high-fived everyone in a twenty foot radius.
I knew one of the hot bartenders, and she kept giving me jugs of rum and coke. I think I only paid for half of them.
It's always good to make friends with the hot girls behind the counter. When you can be ten feet behind the line, make eye contact and nod, and have your drink ready by the time you shove your way up there, other people get jealous. And curious.
Curious women are interested women.
Interested women are easy to talk to.
And once I start talking, it always turns to sexual conversation and making out in a hurry.
But, when I'm that drunk, I get A.D.D, and have a hard time paying attention long enough to escalate beyond that. And every time I go through my contacts list on my phone, I always have a bunch of numbers to delete because I have NO FUCKING IDEA who the numbers are for.
'Triansdsi' isn't a name. Fairly certian.
And, why did I add a guy named 'Travis'?
After that, the next thing I remember is being in the hotel lobby about two blocks away from the club.
I was having a conversation with the concierge, and she called me a cab.
I was by myself.
At one point, I realized I felt like I was spitting a lot - which, I've learned, is one of my warning signs I'm about to puke. I asked where the washrooms were, and she told me I'd have to use the ones downstairs.
There were four flights of stairs.
FOUR FUCKING FLIGHTS OF STAIRS.
I got about half way and started to imagine those scenes in horror movies where people split up and the one guy heads for the basement.
He's usually the first to go.
By the time I got to the washroom, I'd forgotten why I'd made the trip.
So, I pulled my pants down and sat. Seemed reasonable.
But, I realized after a minute that was not the reason I was there.
I had backed up on the seat as much as possible so I could spit in the bowl while I was sitting there, when the first wave came.
My aim was nearly perfect.
I threw up everything.
Five hours of beer, rum, shots, Jagermeister, and something I'd eaten.
All of it sent propelling through the gap between me and the front of the toilet bowl, and between my spread legs. Straight down.
It was comfortable. And almost enjoyable.
I felt like laughing in between spurts of vomit.
The first time I drunk puked, it cost me $150 on a hotel bill.
This time, I not only didn't have to worry about a bill, I didn't get a drop on myself.
I wiped my face off in the sink and laughed at my accidental genius. Fucking brilliant! "This is how I do it from now on," I said to myself.
I got back to the front desk just as my cab was pulling up, and went home.
Fast learner? Maybe. Too stupid to know the difference between "I need to shit" and "I need to puke"? Yes, indeed.
Willing to still count it as a win? Absolutely.
