YSaC, Vol. 858: Just like Pagliacci did, you SHOULD have kept your surface hid!
Once again, it’s that time here at YSaC where we try to solve the nation’s unemployment crisis by pairing job seekers and employers who might have missed each other.
Seeking adult drunk clown for 30th birthday party
We need an Adult Drunk Clown who is good at getting drunk and stupid. No need to do any clown tricks, just hang out and drink a shit load. We will be hopping around to different bars and want a clown to tag a long and drink heavely. He doesn’t even need to socialize with anyone, just drink.
That’s a pretty tall order. It’s tough to find someone who’s willing to attend parties while wearing paint. Fortunately – we’ve found JUST such a person:
I AM A FAT NAKED MALE
use me in any way you want.comedy,tragedy whatever.
paint me
draw me
point and laugh at me
bachlorette party’s
nice guy, will get naked for money.
See, I’ll bet the first folks didn’t even realize just how much MORE amusing their bar crawl could be if the clown was naked!
I think it’s also worth pointing out that this post qualified for nine different tags, which may be a record for me.
Thanks for the links, db and Heather!
Is it a point in the clown-requestor’s favor that they don’t require a little person (and use non-PC terminology to do so)?
Also:
bachelorette party’s what?
bachelorette party’s disappointment?
bachelorette party’s horror?
bachelorette party’s shame?
bachelorette party’s uninvited guest?
E. All of the above.
SJ — I think you meant ewwww All of the above.
Bachelorette party’s court date.
I don’t think I’d want to be within 20 feet of someone drinking “heavely.”
I think I would rather be near someone drinking “heavely”, than someone drinking “bazooka-pukely”.
I’d be constantly worried that they would go from “heavely” to “bazooka-pukely” without warning.
Smedley — you’re so cute!!!!
Thanks! I like to stay in shape.
Oh. The dog. That’s Velcro, her saga is detailed over the weekend.
Thanks!
Smedley, is “bazooka-pukely” stronger or less strong than “firehose”?
I inquire purely for research interest, you understand.
Bazooka-puke is a one time deal, firehose is a continuous stream.
Drunks are likely to have bazooka in the back of your freshly detailed truck, your children have firehose after they crawl into bed with you unannounced at 0200. Subtle differences, but they are there.
Thank you, Smedley. I’ll be noting this for future reference.
*makes note to self: “continue not having children”*
While firehose is inconvenient, is it worse than bazooka-pukely in a 3 year old after they have eaten an entire ashtray of cigarette butts and other leavings and then refuse to stand still but, instead, run madly about the house and up and down the hall and into several rooms while re-depositing said ashtray contents plus some extras all about?
That’s bad but…4 year old that goes over to the neighbors raspberry patch and eats 1/2 a gallon of raspberries followed by an entire box of lime otter pops (swiped from same neighbors garage freezer) washed down by a coke. Then passes out on couch where he barfs it all onto the couch, between the cushions and onto the carpet…I think the stain went all the way to the dirt under the concrete in the basement, from the second floor den.
A ten year old who eats raw brownie dough followed by 3 properly cooked brownies washed down with a Dr. Pepper who then spends the night at a friend’s house, feels sick in the middle of the night, stands up to go the bathroom and sprays the walls, the bed, the floor, herself, and the friend, worst part? It was me, many, many, many years ago.
Kelli – this is seasonally “appropriate”: me, at three or four, at a Thanksgiving dinner table at family friends’, with LOTS of guests. Amazingly, they still keep in touch with my parents! Nice people. They didn’t deserve that, but it wasn’t like I did it on purpose, either.
I still won’t eat hominy, though.
Might as well keep the gross train going:
One year old gets into a box of cherry cordials. This is the old days when the cordial part was still alcohol. Spends all night Christmas Eve puking her guts out, ruins her favorite stuffed bunny and tells her mother “no more chocolate cherries ever!” Wakes up feeling fine. Gets into a batch of grandma’s rumballs, forgets her vow of no chocolate, repeats previous nights pukestravaganza.
Or so my mother tells me. Repeatedly. Like, every Christmas for the last 35 years.
**And, in the event of stepson presenting me with grandchildren, never aim them at anyone, least of all self. **
My niece actually managed to hit the ceiling. I was impressed and glad I didn’t have to clean it up. She also barfed on my spiffy outfit for her parent’s wedding. I love that little monkey.
Indeed, in my younger party animal days I was around plenty of people who drank heavely, spewly, chunder-hosely, and twelve-storey-floor-pie-drop-ly. One of those times, it was me. It earned me the nickname “Ralph the Door Painter.”
This was before I learned the “beer before liquor” adage.
Right of passage for my kids – reach 21, get taken to bar by older siblings and friends, consume waaaaaaay too much alcohol, carry around a bucket labeled “Ralph”, use said bucket on the ride home, wake up with world’s worst hangover, swear off anything alcohol-related ever again, lather, rinse, repeat.
*coughritecough*
Don’t we all go through something similar? I didn’t have a bucket named Ralph though. The friend who was driving just told me to tell her to pull over if I was feeling heavely or spewly or anything else. Which I did, on the busiest street in Portland.
*holds out dixie cup*
My older brother coated the bathroom floor and passed out in the shower on his 21st. I did nothing which is kind of pathetic.
Beer before licker?
Have I been doing it wrong all these years?
What?
But I hardly know her!
Ba-dum-dump.
Hammy, you’ve been doing it right. Your average girl is gonna require you to buy her at least one beer first.
And remember, according to “Family Guy”, if she smokes, she pokes.
I think the exact quote is, “If she’s a smoker, you can poke her.”
This was Lois’s advice to Chris when he was looking for a girlfriend.
Yes you have Ham Can. You have been doing it totally wrong.
Going bar hopping with a (possibly naked) drunk clown.
I had a nightmare like that once, which is why I no longer mix Nyquil with Red Bull.
I also like how Sparky I stresses several times that it has to be an Adult Drunk Clown. Like there’s a twelve year old out there reading CraigsList ads going, “That’s the perfect after-school job for me!”
Something tells me that if it is a somewhat underage female in a “sexy clown” costume, they won’t care so much about the “adult” part (in terms of drinking age, anyway).
A “sexy clown costume” is like a “sexy zombie costume” – There is no degree of sluttiness that can make that work without some deep fetish issues involved.
The Bloggess wrote about the sexy clown thing. It’s pretty funny, if you haven’t already seen it.
It it suitable for work or should I wait until I get home to Google that?
It’s on her SexIs page, which she says is probably safe for work “if your boss isn’t a total douche-canoe.”
Might want to wait until you’re at home, just to be safe. (Not saying your boss is a DC, just suggesting you err on the side of caution.)
The post I refer to is one where she tries out “sexy clown” outfits to review them; her husband’s comments are the ones that had me really laughing.
I love the Blogess! She is so insane. We could be sisters. But seriously, read it at home, just to be safe. And you will no doubt want to look at the Cat on Head posts.
Cat on Head is classic, I agree.
Great. Just got caught up on Order of the Stick, now something else to read.
I love the Bloggess. I love that she carries around a confidence wig. I have pondered if I should do this but concluded wigs don’t help me.
Everyone knows that drunk clowns can’t hold their liquids.
But they are pretty handy with a seltzer bottle if you need your drink watered down. Guess if you don’t mind the squirting flower gag every 5 minutes, it would be a good time– if you were dehydrated!
Maybe it’s the day I’ve been having (less-good suboptimal, for those scoring along at home), but doe not the insistance on an adult clown smack of prior, sounded-good-at-the-time, experience?
Like, they tried this with 19 y/o mime, and that was not good, then they tried a 5 y/o donkey, and the Contributing fines were on top of the Animal Control fines. Or, that time, last year, remember, with the 35-going-on-15 Clown?
I mean, really, I’m getting a “You should not already be banned from the bars we plan to go to” vibe here. With a (“it’s ok with us if you have to wear a disguse to get back in the bar”) tinge, too.
why didn’t I think of a mime!! That would be awesome! They could mime drinking heavely.
It’s even more pathetic that Sparky needs this clown for a 30th birthday party. Shouldn’t they have more sense by then? Oh yea, this is Craig’s List where sense is not in the vocabulary.
I’m trying to decide which interpretation of. ”paint me” is more disturbing. Sure, creepy naked clown is bad, but naked fat man recreating Varga Girl pin-up poses…I’m getting a George Costanza vibe here.
How about the Betty Grable look -over- one- shoulder move?
Yep, I’m going to Hell.
Hey, at least you’re avoiding a view of his junk that way (it’s the little details that matter).
OT: Now not only do my spammers think I’m some guy named James Pasquale, but they think I’m going bald too.
Sparky and Friends, unable to convince a midget to join them in their bar-hopping just so they could laugh at his…ahem…”shortcomings”….decided to try another tactic and “hire” a clown.
Except “hire” means, have a clown tag along and possibly buy his drinks.
And “tag along” means stand over there…no farther…farther…no…way over there. In the corner and don’t socialize whatever you do!
The fat naked male is a comedy and tragedy all rolled up into one.
I had one of those living across from me (fortunately not *too* fat, and a decent back view, but, honestly, when you don’t ASK to see it, it’s still not great to deal with), and can only agree!
The only fat naked male I’ve ever had to unwillingly deal with wasn’t even fully naked, although he may as well have been. My mom and I (this was in high school) called him “ugly thong man” because that was all he was wearing as he sunbathed in his front yard. He was down the street from us, fortunately, but since we most frequently drove home on that street, it didn’t save us from catching an unwanted glimpse every once in a while.
When I was telling a British friend that there was a naked guy in the building across, he said “Like on ‘Friends’! You have an Ugly Naked Guy!” Yes, except on “Friends,” no one actually had to see the UNG.
Why are there never any attractive people walking around naked like you see in the movies?
Could the entire pron industry be lying to us?
You see UNG’s back in “The One Where Everybody Finds Out” when Ross goes over to try to get an in with him so he can move into the apartment, since UNG is subletting it himself.
Crap, I’ve exposed my Friends nerdiness again.
Doesn’t he actually talk to UNG while he (UNG) is fully clothed? (Been years so my memory is a bit hazy.)
Ross actually ended up naked in UNG’s apartment, bonding with UNG by eating mini muffins, so that he could sub-let UNG’s apartment.
I thought there was something involving muffins, but my brain rejected it as too random.
UNG is definitely naked. More Friends nerdiness*: When Ross is standing at UNG’s door, he says, “I’m sorry, I can’t help but notice that you’re naked. *slow clap* Man, I wish I was naked. This just looks so…great. That is the way God intended it.” Thus ending up naked himself, as Angel noted. And yes, they were eating mini-muffins. It wasn’t terribly random, Ross had tried to win over UNG earlier in the episode by sending a basket of mini-muffins, but then they looked over at the apartment and realized that there were many other gifts much better than mini-muffins, such as a pinball machine.
*I have all the seasons on DVD and an incredibly good memory. The combination produces results such as this.
SarahJean I think you might be on to something. The pron industry might be lying to us.
Sorry, I’m booked solid that day. I have the Daniels twins’ birthday at 11, the Animal Shelter Charity event from 1 to 5, and then some idiot’s 30th birthday pub crawl all night. Sunday, if still alive, I’ll be sleeping.
The Daniels twins? Jack and Charlie? Saw both of them at the birthday party I went to Saturday night. Not as much fun as it sounds like, folks.
Dang it, the puppy is in the box again. Gotta put down the papers before I head out to work this morning. Anyone got any treats to leave for him?
Windy — here’s one of my son’s old, stinky soccer cleats. (I understand the first one was delicious).
I have a slightly used teat.
What was it used as? Wait, I don’t think I want to know. Just throw it in the box.
Ham was the one who used it, so I’ve no idea for what it was used. I didn’t want to know either.
Nomnomnom
Almost everyone was in attendance and ready to take on the city’s pubs when the doorbell rang.
“Got it!” yelled Smiff, though he was pretty sure that was unnecessary as nobody in this particular crowd had the initiative to scratch their own bums, much less answer his door for him. He opened the door.
“Hu… hell…o,” said the clown on the other side of the doorway. He smelled marinated in a variety of substances and was a little difficult to see through the haze of alcohol distortion.
“You’re late.” Smiff said pointedly.
“I’m drunk.” the clown replied.
“You were supposed to get drunk with us, not already be drunk.”
“You ass … assked for a jrunk clown. I … Ihhh, I’m a cloooown and I’m jrunk.”
Smiff rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. “Fine, get in. What do we call you?”
The clown staggered in, placing his feet as though unsure whether or not the spot he was about to put one down in had a land mine under it. “Chunkles. Chunkles. I’m Ch … Chunkles.”
“Chunkles?” Smiff repeated incredulously.
“CHUNKLES. You de…eeeeee….eaf?” Chunkles belched.
Smiff grimaced. “Whatever. Just sit down, we’ll be going in a minute.”
“Cheers,” Chunkles replied with a random half-raised wave of his arm behind him that may have been acknowledgment or fanning a fart. He approached a leatherette reclining chair and proceeded to plop down unceremoniously in front of it.
“Is that the clown?” one of his drinking buddies asked. Url, Smiff thought his name was; he was never sure as he only ever showed up at these pub crawls and by the time the night was over, nobody was sober enough to remember anything.
“Yeah,” Smiff responded.”
“He looks like a bum,” Url commented. “I can smell him from here.”
Chunkles spoke up. “Yeah? Well y…you eat thur …thuuuuu … rteen burritos after a bottle of MMmm…MD20/20 and see if you don’t shit yourself.”
“I’m going to kick Bode’s ass,” Smiff cursed. Bode was the one who “ordered” the clown off Craigslist. They all agreed it would probably be pretty funny, especially once they were good and pickled and everything looked funny, but this was already getting off too a terrible start. They would probably have no trouble ditching him if they needed to, though, so there was that.
While Chunkles drooled down the poms of his suit, Smiff went to grab his keys and phone, but was interrupted by another ring of the doorbell. Since Chunkles completed their troupe, he couldn’t imagine who it would be, but figured it was just another tag-along one of the other guys invited at the last minute. There was always at least one. Smiff went over and opened the door once again, and immediately, profoundly regretted it.
Standing on the other side of a door was a very fat, very naked man who appeared to be in his late forties. He had very little hair left on his head, and if it had migrated to his chest, it had probably been swallowed up by his girth by now. It was clear that gravity, was very, very angry at this man, as his forehead was slick with sweat from merely standing there, his arms appeared to be folding over themselves, and his legs — stubby-looking from everything being pulled downward — were quivering in their attempts to stay locked. The man’s only nod to modesty, which was just a function of his anatomy, was that his distended gut covered his business.
“Penis!” exclaimed Chunkles as he pointed at the fat man, and then promptly vomited on the floor in front of him. For his part, the fat man appeared to take that as his cue to explain himself.
“Hey, I’m Mooge. Are you Bode?”
Smiff couldn’t speak. Or move. Or fully process what he was seeing, though he could only have been more gobsmacked if a dead body crashed through his window and landed in the chip bowl. He tried to work his vocal chords, but could only manage a hoarse squeak. Fortunately, he was relieved of the need to say anything.
“Oh!” called Bode from across the room. “Hey, is that the naked fat dude? Awesome, I’ve got the paint ready and the newspaper laid down! Come in, man, come in!”
Smiff was at a complete loss. For anything. Everything. The fat man wandered past him and across to the other side of the room. Chunkles leaned over to dry-heave and discovered he still had more to offer the floor.
Smiff let the door close on its own and mumbled angrily to himself, “I am seriously going to kill Bode.”
MF, I don’t know whether to clap or use my airsick bag first. 8) Many, many (non-Ralphed) doors.
You could always clap while using your air sick bag. Just make sure it doesn’t get between your hands.
(On second thought, after this post, the latter is probably more appropriate now.)
Paint me, Demean me
By: The Ewww
Paint Me
Draw Me
Demean Me
Pay Me
Paint Me
Draw Me
Demean Me
Pay Me
Paint Me
Draw Me
Demean Me
Pay Me
Paint Me
Draw Me
Ridicule Me
Pay Me
I’m tellin’ you, I will get naked
Gazing at me, you’ll get the jeebies
Following you, I’ll drink from the fountain
I got vomit on your feet
I’m behind you, I’ll scare the childrens
On you, I spewed some 4loco
From you, I got free drinks
From you, I got to party
I’m tellin’ you, I will get naked
Gazing at me, you’ll get the jeebies
Following you, I’ll drink from the fountain
I got excrement on your feet
I’m behind you, I’ll scare the childrens
On you, I spewed some 4loco
From you, I got free drinks
From you, I got to party
The title reminds me of Nirvana’s song. Slightly.
It’s the Who, “See Me Feel Me”. Which, given that this is in the context of a naked man, The Ewww is about right.
Who is Bob Goldthwait, Alex?
Is that the clown or the fat naked man? I really would not like to see Bobcat Golthwait naked. Well, I don’t want to see any fat man naked, but seeing a fat naked man who speaks alternately in a nervously whiny and then angry shouty voice is particularly disturbing.
(I was going to try and do a Bobcat Golthwait impression, but how do you ASCIIfi that? I don’t think they make a single typeface suitable for him. I’d have to keep changing fonts, sizes, bolding and italic like a ransom letter from an unmedicated bipolar chihuahua.)
I don’t know who the band is tonight at the 40 Watt, but their new album title is intriguing. It’s “ransom letter from an unmedicated bipolar chihuahua.”
I was thinking Bipolar Chihuahua could be the band, but you’re right, that’s a rockin’ song title.
Tonight it’s Bipolar
ChiwaChihuahua playing hits from their album, Ransom Letters from the Unmedicated!Dang kids and their creative band posters! I believe you’re right, Sarajean.
*wanders away muttering about whether the club will have an “early bird” discount show*
It’s bipolar chawa, get it right!
To: Mindfield
Re: Is that the clown or the fat naked man?
Yes.
“Shakes the Clown”, No?”
Never shake the drunken clown…oh that’s his name? Never mind.
To: Smedley
Re: “Shakes the Clown”, No?”
Yes.
Question for Sparky II – Could roofing tar be considered a kind of paint? I’ll even toss some nice soft feathers on top to keep it from sticking to everything.
In the can on my left: Honey. The can on my right? Fire ants. Did I mention this was for a living exhibit?
Fat Naked Sparky might have stumbled onto a great business plan, depending on how high his squickiness threshold is. (I’m guessing it’s pretty high considering he placed an ad on CraigList advertising nude services.)
“Here’s fifty bucks. Roll around in this pile of fresh manure while I pelt you with flaming marshmallows and swear at you.”
“Is this for art?”
“…Sure, whatever. Oh, I might accidentally use the name of my ex when I’m cursing at you. It’s … part of the artistic process.”
I’m not that kind of Can, Snookums.
I bet you’re a spiral-cut bone-in, Hammy.
I’m betting Hammy is more the semi-boneless, clove-studded type.
… Aaaaand just like that, I never want to eat ham again.* Congratulations.
*Until a few minutes ago, I loved ham.** Now, I hate you all. 8)
**The actual pork kind, not our esteemed commenter. I’ve never met him.
I was getting a “natural and artificial ingredients added to preserve freshness” vibe.
I thought I was showing remarkable restraint in not mentioning the special glaze.
Could this be the same glaze Taco uses on his cumpets?
I am a Virgin-ya Ham.
What?
PicNic anyone?
O beloved Llamanun, bees be ever upon thee… Seriously? No “possibly awesome” tag? The experience contemplated in ad #1 could be life-altering in a could-only-happen-at-Burning-Man way. And the synchronicity, the sheer cosmic kismet of the second poster’s availability for not only heavey drinking, but the bonus of fat-guy-as-canvas hijinks? It could be…
Yeah. I stand corrected.
**grabs Bedazzled “I love me” shirt on way to corner
So, looks like many regulars have fled the city for the Grandma’s House joys of the holiday. I will be available to comment, and may even give out spoilers on the Book Club selection. 8)
I’m not leaving town this week. Trying to scrabble up some house/pet sitting, since that is the case (and we are to have about a 40º temperature change either Wednesday or Thursday).
Today, though, I’ve been sucked into reading a gripping bit of net-fiction, agonizingly spread over 51 (yes fifty-one) vBuletin pages. Normally not my cup of tea, but it was announced that the co-authored work has been picked up by Baen Books and will be published & released in the new year.
For those who will recognize the reference, this is very Kildar like. One of the authors is the author of the Monster Hunters International series.
Snark away, mi compadres, I’ll be back.
I have no classes the rest of this week, but I’ll probably be doing crazy stuff like sleeping late and going to Michaels to fetch felt for Mila.
I’m back at work, just now leaving (5:05 PM CST)… 🙁
Will be posting more when I get home. Everybody break out your adore puncher. lol.
I gave you a door, Limelolly (I always want to write LimeLOLly, must be the kitty influence), but my replies are slightly broken. Nevertheless, I will be snarking all week. No major holiday plans here except HP movie late Wednesday, dinner and a trip to the casino Thursday. Thankfully, my MIL understands that my house will not be clean and she doesn’t care. I score high approval ratings by simply being less crazy than the previous DIL.
Aw, but, I need to now wander off with the 42 players for a bit.
Will be thinking of all you clever and witty and erudite and how much fun it would be togo as wolfhounds among the sheep . . .
SPOILER ALERT: the male praying mantis dies. But it’s a “happy ending”.
The only Adult Drunk Clown I know is just terrible at getting drunk and stupid.
So close…
Linnee! I punched you yesterday! You were in the box all day long. 8) Congrats!
Aw! Thanks Windy!
Ahh, drunken bar crawls. I have only participated in a very, very few and only at work-sponsored conferences (always in a different city as we maintain that no city would let us return).
I never knew it was *actually possible* to turn green; I thought it was a phrase “for effect”. But, no, after having a night of totally unrestrained drinking, I staggered into my bathroom the next morning to start getting ready for the flight home, looked into the mirror and thought, “Holy shit, that is NOT a normal color for a human being.”
I managed to avoid throwing up at the breakfast table by sheer stubbornness, got a little toast into my stomach and recovered in due time.
I learned later that this disqualified me from the department’s “Hat Award” given annually for the most spectacular display of public drunkenness.
The story of the “Hat” is another story entirely, as is the story of how it was won the following year (but not by me).
It’s shaping up to be a slow night. We could use a good drunk story. 🙂
There are no good drunk stories–just differing levels of telling about it afterwards . . .
ETA: (But, there are far too many bad drunk stories, sad to say; too much Art from them to go with the Too-much Angst, too.)
My best friend’s bachelorette party involved a lot of ‘screwdrivers’ and ‘amaretto’ shots (to this day, I do not touch those particular drinks).
I’m told I was really good when dancing on top of the bar. Topless.
Thankfully, that was many years ago, long before it became common for cell phones to be able to take pictures.
This probably isn’t very interesting, but it’s the only time I ever fully and completely blacked out.
So a buddy of mine, whom we all called Ratt, because that’s what he went by on the local bulletin boards (pre-intarwebs; this was back in the very early 90s) was house sitting for his father, who was away on vacation. Bored, he picked me up to go over there and chill a bit, which I did, because I was bored, too.
His father was a lawyer, so the house was well-appointed and in a nice neighbourhood. There wasn’t much to do there though, so we put on some tunes and decided to get drunk. Ratt showed me a bottle of “imported” (read: smuggled) Jamaican rum called High Wine. Only it wasn’t wine, and I sincerely doubt it could legally be called rum, either, because it was 180-proof. That isn’t a typo.
So we mix some rum & Cokes, starting with a relatively lite 10/90 mix, because that would have been the equivalent of a pretty strong drink using regular (and still legal) 80-proof stuff. I downed it and complained that it was weak, though for rocket fuel purporting to be rum, it was pretty smooth. So being a bulletproof manly man just inside my 20s, I said “Screw it. Do 40/60.” 40 being the rum, naturally. My delusions of immortality didn’t extend that far. So mix said drinks we did. We sat down and watched some TV and I was pretty fine while we were seated.
And then I got up.
And that was the last thing I remember until the next morning, when I awoke slumped over myself, legs spread because they were bracketing a perfectly round puke pie. Large, no anchovies. Thankfully, Ratt’s father liked his hardwood floors, so cleanup was relatively easy, though the process nearly made me try to repeat the feat.
And that was the first and last time I ever drank the most potent booze that wasn’t pure grain alcohol.
Ahh, reminiscing back to when the legal drinking age in FL was 18. The drinking age changed the year after I turned legal myself, but that was a fun year while it lasted! And frankly, I’m not sure that I could have stood the smell of liquor for the 2 years that it took for me to legally drink again. It probably took me that long to sober up.
Starkle, starkle, little twink,
Who the hell are you I think.
I’m not under what you call
The alcofluence of incohol.
I’m just a little slort of sheep,
I’m not drunk like thinkle peep.
I don’t know who is me yet,
But the drunker I stand here the longer I get.
So just give me one more fink to drill my cup,
‘Cause I got all day sober to Sunday up.
Here’s a drunk story for you, christina.
In my first semester of college at the u of minnesota, I went to a house party at the house of a friend’s sister. I remember distinctly dancing to the Stones “Shattered” with a bottle of Jack in my hand. I am about 5’1″ and at that time probably weighed a buck five, max. After that, there is a hazy memory of lying in a snowbank outside the front door, then puking out of the open door of a moving car. After that, nothing. I woke up in the ER of University hospital in a puddle of vomit (it’s bad when the good news is it’s your own puke), my hair in two horrendous, encrusted ponytails. I was on a heart monitor and a resident gave me a long lecture on the evils of underage drinking (I was 17).
Apparently some guy carried me into the dorm, an RA saw us, and my friend dropped and broke a bottle of rum. They couldn’t get any response out of me so called campus police, who took me to the ER.
Thank God I am one of 6 kids because by that time, my parents just rolled their eyes. Dad’s direct quote: “what next?”
My best drunk story involves a party that I threw purely for the sake of getting to know a young man I had recently met. At the time I was a dangerously seasoned drinker, considering I was only 23 and had actually spent my 21st year completely sober. Said young man showed up with a bottle of 151. I had already had enough kamakazis to kill someone, and decided the best way to break the ice was to challenge him to a shot contest. Surprisingly, I did not vomit. I don’t remember much of what happened after that, but I have been informed that I went for a walk without shoes (this was January) and divulged far too much information about previous relationship tshirt time. At some point he left and I never heard from him again. I can’t say I was surprised.
I had a recent experience like that Christina and frankly I am comforted that I am not alone. I went to a beer tasting with a guy I had just met and wanted badly to impress. I drank the beer samples and got very drunk. I spilled beer all over the place, fell down in the aisle, and had a panic attack in which I was hysterical. I had to call my Dad to take me home. I never saw the guy again and I have sworn off drinking for the moment. It was so horrible. I hardly ever drink and when they hand you 12 four oz cups of beer with differing alcohol contents you are so screwed.
Is anyone else’s liver quivering as they read these stories?
I went to a school known for its partying (there was SFA to do in the area otherwise) and which has a prominent Greek system (e.g., much organized partying in addition to the frequently disorganized partying) and was myself really only comparatively average, but am still astonished at when I can drive around where I went to college (and even grad school) and think “there, puked there … stumbled home from there … collected my friend from there because she got stranded when her date passed out … puked there and there, and there … and that’s the house that had the cage in the basement so that when they had parties the bands could play in it and not get knocked over (or puked on) by the people at the party [not making a bit of this up] … ” You get the idea. Sometimes I’m surprised I finished on time and with good grades, and with a functioning stomach and liver besides, but that may have been because, unlike some of my neighbors, I did not tap the keg at 8 on the morning of the football game … and pass out from it before the game started at noon.
I’m guessing that school’s name rhymes with kazoo.
Got it in one, Hammy. 8)
I just started to write this paean to how wonderful beer is in the morning. Yeah. Just re-confirmed for myself that, 18 years later I am, indeed, still a raging alcoholic. Sign me up for another 24 hours, Bill. : )
Tankerbell, I was steered toward the path of moderation (flask jokes notwithstanding) by very briefly dating an alcoholic during grad school. Collegiate drinking was one thing, but this guy was 30 and had a very good job, and I didn’t know the signs. He managed to keep the job because he was a functional alcoholic – in public, and at work. The rest of the time? At home? Not so much. I’ll spare you the details, and will just say it was a lesson I didn’t need to experience twice to learn, both in terms of choosing partners and my own path in life.
Well, I b’lieve I’ve lamented long about growing up surrounded by raging alcoholics so I really don’t have drunk stories to tell….leastwise not many for me.
Unfortunately, I started following in the family tradition at the ripe old age of 13. Got drunk quite a few times on Boone’s Farm and yet not once was I a) hungover or b) involved in a pukefest.
It was the fact that drinking was so easy and had little consequence that scared the hell out of me and so, at the much matured age of 15, I swore the stuff off and very rarely drink today…and even then it’s a single glass of wine. I get that slightly tipsy feeling and it damn-near sends me into a panic.
Then again, intoxication need not be from alcohol:
*clears throat*
Ahem
*and in the voice of Pablo Neruda*
Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it – our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal –
Over the sky’s hot rim,
The day’s last breath in our sails.
Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.
Whoa. Nice poem.
Very nice. Yep, ripping this one off.
Oh, Coff!! This is wonderful!
Right, ’cause we wouldn’t want a mean naked clown at your party.
Although, could you imagine if the bouncer at your nearest club/bar was a mean naked male clown? No one who was underage would go near the place.
I have been drunk once. I worked as a cook at a country club, and was always going to get a free drink in the bar after my shift. But on New Year’s Eve, I cooked up a mess of lobster at the restaurant, and got to have as much of the left-overs as I wanted. At the end of the night, the owner came in with all the champagne and cold duck that hadn’t been drunk, and handed out a bottle to each employee. My female roommate at the time and I noticed that even the under-age bus boys had a bottle. So we confiscated a couple of theirs. I was so drunk. So we got in my car and I drove slowly home. This is in Ramona, Ca. Winding, mountainy roads, two lanes and occasional flooding, and lots of fog. Loved the place. Anyway, my roommate and I decided we wanted more selection in our drink, so we drove to a liquor store and bought something. I don’t even remember what. Then I drove us home and fell asleep. Yup, that ‘s about it. No puking that I remember, probably a headache, but had the whole day to recover. The best part is, I was so horrified at what I did, driving drunk, that I gave up drinking anything completely. Until I met my husband and he made me a martini, I was good. 8)
I was drunk once too…from 1980-1997
I resemble that remark…
As depressing as it is to air our drunken mistakes, I’m glad everyone has if it means someone might read this and realize that they don’t want to end up in a worse situation.
That’s right, kids. Listen to Auntie Tankerbell! NEVER, NEVER drink straight from the bottle of Jack Daniels!
Blech.. I’ve totally been put off by Jack Ds and other ‘cheaper’ whiskeys even in mixed drinks. Discovered that I actually like the smoother taste of Woodford Reserve and it only costs about $10-12 more than JDs. But my hidden lush always had snobbish tastes, too bad it doesn’t get indulged very often. Or that is probably good.
Especially since that leads to gastronomic delights that sound good in theory.
You thought Taco Bell and beer was bad, christina? Try JD and a Velveeta omelet coming out for a curtain call.
I can’t even smell Velveeta now without my stomach doing a back flip.
Windy, I commend you for reacting sensibly rather than deciding that, hey, if you made it home safely once, why not try it again? I wish more people were like you. ♥
You were good or the martini?
Yes. To both. 8)
Thanks, Bridgete. Having a dad who is an alcoholic, who didn’t sober up until he was retired at 60, made a big impact in my life as well. I knew I was susceptible to a life of bad times if I didn’t stop completely. Like you I wish more people could come to that conclusion, but we all must walk our paths in our own ways. Now, please turn to page 526 in our Hymnals, and join me in “Oh what a friend we have in Our Llama-nun!”
Hwhere’s the fiyah and brimstone-ah? The path to your salvationah is frought with perils!
The demon drink is everywhere, sisters and brothers-uh! Repent! Lest ye burn with a merry blue flame when-ah the Deevil comes to claim you for your iniquitous and shame-filled lives! Repent!
Not sure about “frought”.
Amen, Reverend! You gittin’ it said, yassir! Yes, Lawd!
Alright, all this talk of barfing has made me very tired. Time to wrap it up and get back to Farmville. 8)
Hammy! Here’s a Reykjavík Punchity Punch Punch!
G’Night, Akron!
Takk þú , nú til útskýra the mar til minn kærasta.