| someonecompletelyrandom |
12-20-2011 11:27 PM |
Why are all of the first few lines in red text? I must have missed something. I should probably read the entire thread. All I saw was "drunk story" and "picture of my ass" and I flew to the reply button.
So this is a story about the first time I ever got drunk, and I mean truly, throw up in the toilet and pass-out drunk. My parents had accumulated quite a bit of liquor over the past few months, and it seemed to me as though they had a surplus. I thought I'd help them out by relieving them of their extra baggage. After all, my family had been going through some hard times lately and I didn't want anybody turning to the bottle to relieve their pain and fuel addiction. It was that, or I just wanted to get ****faced. I can't remember exactly. Anyway, being a complete newbie to alcohol, I didn't know what to try. I had drunk some Jack & Coke before, which I knew was a simple recipe: Coca-Cola and whiskey or bourbon. Couldn't get more simple than that right? My family was gone, and unbeknownst to me they'd be coming back with a rather loud and obnoxious relative of mine. I get a hang over just talking to that guy, I'd have never undergone my binge had I known what I'd be subjected to upon his arrival and subsequent pal-ingaroundness. That's not a term, but I don't really care. I do wish I could have spelt it some way that doesn't look as stupid. The dash is what gets me about it.. but I couldn't put pallingaroundness because nobody knows what the hell that's supposed to be. I just realized I wrote spelt instead of spelled... and yet I didn't spell realized as realised. I've always preferred the spelling of programme to program... I don't know why, it just looks classier to me. Anyway, back to my story. Vanilla's ass is so close I can almost taste it. Okay, that's probably not the best idiom to use in this instance... if it's even an idiom. I think it's an expression. Or are they the same thing? Can I start a sentence with or? Damn it. I'm never going to taste Vanilla's ass unless I get to my story. That came out wrong again.
Anyway, as I looked through the cabinet I decided upon the bourbon I would use for my Coke mix. Choosing this bottle was the worst mistake I've ever made in my entire drinking career. I picked a bottle of Bookers, the proof was around 160 if I remember correctly. We were all out of regular Coca-Cola, so I mixed it with Lime Diet Coke. As I had yet to eat that day, I grabbed a Boar's Head Pepperoni Sausage and quickly ate the entire thing. The perfect storm. Still quite new to drinking, I didn't know that not every sip of your mixed drink is supposed to taste like commercial jet fuel. Downing about 4 or 5 cups with wildly uneven proportions, I decided I was sufficiently altered. I remember my first experience with falling while intoxicated.. so does the mark on the wall where my head landed. After having quite a bit of fun just being a total drunken idiot, I soon felt the firepower of that fully-operation bottle of Bookers. First my face went numb, and then I started flushing and aching all over. The next thing I remember is logs of sausage exiting my body the same way they went in. I somehow managed to climb the stairs, hobble into my room and collapse on my bed. The room was spinning, which pissed me off as I was trying to sleep. I yelled at the room.
A few hours later, my family arrives with my obnoxious relative. He promptly makes his way upstairs, barges into my room and challenges me to a game of pool. This is where my paranoia kicks in. "HE WANTS TO PLAY POOL I HAVE TO PLAY OR I WILL LOOK SUSPICIOUS I MUST GET UP NOW AND PLAY POOL." This turns out to be the proudest moment in my drinking career. Somehow, in my fear of getting caught drinking under the age limit, I pulled myself together. Every movement, every utterance of speech, even every thought was meticulously planned to appear "normal". Beyond that, in my drunkeness I found an incredible transcendence in competition. I kicked his ass at pool. I could barely walk without effort and I was able to beat a self-proclaimed pool expert, and not by a little. His constant blathering did begin to take it's toll on me, however, and I retired early.
The next morning, at 8am sharp, he burst into my room again and wanted to go fishing. For some reason, and to this day I don't know why I couldn't say no, I went. Imagine having a hang over and spending it in a train yard. Only the trains can talk to you about awkward things like "girls" and "sex"..and then give you a live fish and tell you to scale it. Ironically, I couldn't beat him at pool again. We played the next week, and he kept telling me to "play like I did that other night." No thanks. I'm never going to look at a bottle of Booker's again.
Lessons were learned that day.
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