lol…well, actually…last night was fairly entertaining…(evil grin) Okay okay okay…This is what I remember: I was somehow, someway lying on a craps table…I started hearing music (ahem, I’m too sexy for my shirt, ahem…)…and…well, I WAS way too damn hot for my shirt…so, well, that kind of went flying. FAST FORWARD!!! I then remember teaching Monster104 (Dave, for the purposes of this conversation) how to Salsa - Little Star style…hubba hubba. (there was quite some hip put into that baby…) And hmm…I think I pantsed him - ha ha…crack. I was crazy, I was wild, I was denied drugs…it was interesting - I ate rice…A LOT of rice. HEY! And I even had rice eaten off of Fifi and Sparky! (Another story, babes…)I think that I was fondled as well…but I can’t quite recall…Ask Dave. lol. He was sober…well, yeah, he was. I love alcohol. In the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening…it’s so beautiferous :*) As a matter of fact…(reaches for fridge…)
Well, time for me to 'fess up.
The hard part for me has been which one to post. Sadly, there are any number I can choose from, being the hard core college drinking guy I once was.
I’ve mellowed now. I found out I didn’t do much on Sunday that was considered all that bad. I doubt I would like to see pictures of me slapping a five-spot on the strippers ass, but it was all in good fun.
On to the bigger, more regretable stories.
Soon after the Mall of America opened in Bloomington, myself and two friends were trying to get into one of the bars on the fourth floor. For some reason, I didn’t have my I.D. with me. No problem, I thought, I used to work with the G.M. of all the bars on that floor. He’ll verify my age. Besides, we had already been drinking and it should be obvious to those around us that I was old enough to drink.
I tell my story to the bouncer. He tells me to leave. I tell him I’m serious. Call up my manager friend on your walky-talky thing and he’ll verify it to you.
The bouncer calls mall security instead. I’m immediately surrounded by a half-dozen pimple-faced security staff. They tell me to beat it. I tell them, “Up Yours”.
I get escorted out the door. I go down one floor and proceed to walk back to the bar.
The security guys recognize me from about three minutes earlier and approachs me. “What did will tell you sir?”. I look at them, smile, and say, “I don’t talk to anyone who makes less than $5.50 an hour.” and try to walk past.
A couple of them start talking into their walkie talkies and try to detain me. I tell them they have no right, let me go!
Within a couple seconds I’m now surrounded by even more mall security and off-duty Bloomington cops. They ask me what’s happening. I begin to tell them that, “The pimply little fuck over there tried to kick me out. And that asshole of a bouncer…”
They weren’t too interested in my side of the story. They proceed to spread-eagle me against the wall, pat me down, and put on the cuffs. I get escorted out of the mall, with a large group of people pointing towards me and whispering, all while I yelling my case.
I spent a night in jail and was charged with trespassing. To make matters worse, I was on probation for a DUI from the previous year, and had to go before the judge.
As I sat in court with my attorney, I get to hear some pretty bad cases before mine comes up. The guy right before my case had dumped a few barrels of toxic waste in his backyard pond, and killed everything in it. The guy got probation!
When I go before the judge, he decides he’s going to read the police reports of the incident before the court and the world. It was bad enough that the people in court began to snicker, but was even worse when the judge finished, looked at me, and started to laugh.
He gave his rulling, which went something like, “Son. I think you realise now what you did was wrong. I’m tempted hear to sentence you to having to go to that mall each day for a year. ::Ha Ha Ha’s:: from the judge, attorneys, and even the damn court reporter:: But instead, I’ll sentence you to blank amount of community service, a fine, and staying away from the Mall of America for a period of one year. Next case please.”
Oh joy. Soon after that experience, I decided I should slow down on my drinking escapades.
Then there’s the time I put my hand on a guys knee in a hottub because I didn’t notice the girl next to me had left, and had been replaced by one big ass guy with an attitude. But I digress. I’ll save that one for some other time.
Homer, after re-reading the posts here, you are definetely in the running.
I think there’s some holdouts lurking about that could blow this whole thing wide open.
Goodness, gracious Homie. I had to wipe off my monitor so many times the glass is thinning. It’s hard to tell which one takes the prize. The green magic markings on the face rate right up there with the frito pie decorating. Your precise and correct use of the word chunder is good for extra credit too. (Precise etymology of the Aussie word chunder at bottom of post.) Being so polite as to provide a casting list for your second story is almost as good as “Breaking” the house itself. Your second story is in definite need of transplantation to my, “How To Tell You’ve Cut A Winning Fart” thread at this address:
http://boards.straightdope.com/sdmb/showthread.php?threadid=35515
So far my thread is bereft of your spectacular yarn spinning. Please rectify this glaring ommision at once.
Chris
Chunder: (chun.dah) /Noun & Verb. Australlian euphemism used to describe both the product and act of regurgitation. Other interchangable terms being; liquid laughter, the big spit, liquid lunch and (my favorite) Technicolor yawn.
Origins the of word derive from the nautical practice of always throwing garbage or vomiting from the leeward side of any vessel. On the occasions where this was not possible, prior to hurling, the windward perpetrator was obliged to yell out, “Watch Under” to those on the lower decks. Too often though, this was necessarily abbreviated to, “…'chunder!..”.
Homer, that second post of yours was so hilarious I almost busted my gut. It wasn’t so much the drunken behavior as the late realization that you’d just figured out who cut the party-killing fart…
That story certainly kills off my “baked potato with cheese and coleslaw” story. Mmmm…Mexican food vomit!
I’m 59 years old, I can take a drink, but usually prefer not to. I can state with absolute certainty that I have never been drunk. A little tipsy, yes but never drunk. I cannot understand how anyone can let themselves go that far and become so ridiculous. I guess I am in the minority, but I like myself too much to degrade myself like that.
You guessed it, never tried pot or any other drugs either.
This is not to say I feel holier-than-thou, but I wonder why you would want to abuse yourself like that.
Oohhh!
I just remembered another one. Too many to post, unfortunately.
A few years back a friend and myself decided to go for broke in the middle of the afternoon. We were both in school and liked to drink. Alot.
For a while back then we were hooked on doing ‘Statue of Liberty’ shots.
A statue shot consisted of Rumpleminze (100 hundred proof peppermint schnapps) and a match. What you did was dunk your finger in the shot, hold it up like Liberty herself, light it, drink the shot in record time, and blow out your finger.
The object, obviously, is not to burn the shit out of your finger. So you drink like mad and blow it out before it hurts. Alot 'O fun.
Well, he and I were visiting a bartender friend of mine at Applebee’s. We arrived around three and began to drink like animals.
At one point, as the restaurant/bar was filling up with the dinner crowd, we decide to do another, don’t know the tally at that point, Statue of Liberty.
We should have been cut-off about an hour ealier. But since I was friends with the bartender, he decided to let us drink as much as we wanted.
Big mistake.
After I finish my shot, no pain whatsoever, my friend prepares to drink his. Only he’s decided he’s not going to use his finger. Giving me a look that only a completely drunk could, he smiles at me, and dunks his nose into the shot. He leans his head back, lights his nose and drinks the shot.
There it was. Surrounded by families waiting for a quiet table and nice dinner, is a guy sitting at the bar with his nose on fire. The looks we recieved sent a chill down my back.
Needless to say, my friend had to cut us off and call us a cab. Somehow we made it home and to our respected rooms. The next morning he has a faint memory about it, but thinks he was dreaming it instead.
After it cracked and began showing signs of burn damage, he realized what he had done.
Just another faint memory from my past.
Retief-
Because it’s fun!!! Just look at all the fun people have had.
Retief
Because we can.
Since this will be dying shortly.
I think I’ll declare Homer the winner.
The check is in the mail, right next to my late phone bill payment! I swear it is.
I’m gonna slide in here and drop another ringer.
When I signed up to the same college as my older brother, I started getting mailings from Fraternities. Jake was already in Lambda Chi, so he kept urging me to come out to stuff and hang out, get to know the guys. Well, I wasn’t too hot on the idea, so I kept putting him off. One day, I got a mailing for a Lambda Chi lake trip. Jake really wanted me to go, but I resisted. He finally got me to go by promising me that I could ride a jet ski (I live to jet ski, sadly, I never get the chance). So I signed up, packed my shit, and went over to his house. His roommate was driving, so I just slept on the way down. Well, we finally get to the lake, it was one of the guys’s house, it was really nice. Amazing thing is, it was Jake’s best friend’s lake house before they sold it! Talk about coincidence. But I digress.
So it starts getting dark, and they break out a keg. I haven’t drank since the last story above, so I take it slow (story above was May something, two years ago, this was August 16, same year). They start doing kegstands, and I’m kinda intimidated, because I’ve never done one, so one of the other prospectives (prospective members) and I start our own little chugging contest. We had 16oz cups, and I could (still can, actually) down one in 4 seconds. Well, all the other guys just had to see this, and who am I to deny them the pleasure? All in all, I drank probably 4 before this, then slammed 8 or so to show off. By now I’m getting pretty sloshed, and a little antsy, because I don’t know any of these guys. I hear someone out on the deck say something about cartoons or something, so I stumble out and yell “Hey I’s tell yuh shumpin 'bout dat Fraggle Rock, man dat’s shum good TV I swear…” They, for some reason, picked up on the drunken ramblings, and we launched into the topic of childhood tv. As we’re talking, I drink about 6 more cups worth.
I get up to go to the keg to get another drink, and I’m a little slower on the way back. Jake steps in front of me, “Tim, are you okay?” “Yeh Jake I’m juss… BLERG!” Right down the front of his shirt. He picks me up by my armpits, carries me to the railing, leans me against it, and points my head over. “Hey whatsha doin… herrrkblech!” I stumble back away, “Jake, stopp it, I’m jushh fi - ERBKKKAAAHH!”
By this time, everyone’s watching this dipshit new guy barf his nuts off, so I’m kinda a spectacle, so I make a game out of it. “Hey guysh, wash dis!.. BERLAAAAAGH!”
The finally have enough and take me in and lay me down on the couch. By now, I’m passing in and out. They dump a trashcan under my face and tell me to sleep it off. This one guy, Jamie, is a major mama’s boy, and he’s a total pamperer. He’s also only a prospective, keep that in mind. He starts bitching about how “They’re not being good brothers” and “Tim might die and they’ve just got him in there with a trashcan!?” So they send a guy named Brad in to take care of me. Brad’s an ex Army Ranger, so I’m sure he’s got experience in this. He tries to keep me awake by insulting my manhood (same guy I argued about penises over in the first story… I think he’d win, to be honest), slapping me around, basically making me pissed off. With my eyes still closed (they were SOOO heavy) I stumble around trying to smack him up, but he puts me back on the couch. From this point on, everything anyone says to me is met by an upraised finger and a “fug hyew man.” Brad sends for a glass of milk, and some bread. They bring back milk, water, and a hot dog bun, which Brad forcefeeds me.
I never did puke again, after that last time on the deck, so they leave me alone. I woke up the next morning with absolutely no remembrance of the night before (except snippets of the Smurfs conversation), a half-eaten hotdog bun on my chest, trashcan under my arm, and a single missing sock. I had no idea where I’d been, what I’d done, or what I’d said.
I was fully sober with no headache. I must be a god.
–Tim
I was drinking plum moonshine with a buddy of mine one fine winter afternoon. We go to a party at about 8pm. We started drinking at about 5pm, so at 8, we were pretty gooned. Although this friend of mine wasn’t invited, I take him to the party. All is well for about 5 seconds. He starts arguing with the other guest about the size of beer kegs.
This very attractive girl makes me a drink, following the instructions of a “friend” of mine. 90% rum, 10% coke. This puts me over the edge. I take my clothes off and go to bed. Naked, I walk through the argument.
“Kegs hold 321 glasses of beer!!!”
“Bullshit” says the other participant “They hold 269 glasses of beer……A scientist proved it!”
I go to bed. Once I lie down, I must vomit. Naked, I head back through the argument, into the bathroom and proceed to puke. A hand strokes my back and a soft voice tells me that everything will be all right. I thank the voice and head back to lie down. The voice tucks me in and keeps me company. I married that voice. She saw me naked after about 10 minutes after meeting and she still married me.
We’ll I’m sure some of my stories would be in the running, but the fact is I can’t remember them. Like going to a party in Chicago on Friday, and waking up in only undies on a lawn in Dearborn, Mi on Sunday afternoon.