Okay, guys, I’m new to threadspotting, so I hope you’ll humor me here. I have a really boring job, and I need some comedy at work. I want to hear your funniest/craziest, “once when I was really drunk….” stories. And I don’t want anything lame. “Once I was so trashed, like, I puked nine times” is NOT what I want to read. I want stories where you woke up in Vegas next to an Elvis impersonator and a guitar shaped marriage license, or a story that involves a foray across state lines with a nun and a goat (Wang-Ka, I know you won’t let me down). And please, no moralizing on the evils of alcohol—we all know that the stories of which I speak are NOT something the average straightdope reader should try at home. I’ll get the ball rolling.
The summer before my (first) senior year in college, my friends Bob and Joe and I took out Jeff, my boyfriend at the time, for his birthday. We drove to Bob’s place, a shoddily constructed (just how shoddily constructed, we shall see later), overpriced complex called College Park in a seedy area of town, housing mostly—you guessed it—college students. All of the apartments had identical floor plans and cheap furniture that came with the apartment. College Park was located directly behind a strip center with a grocery store and a pool hall called Rack Daddy’s. We left our cars at the apartment and walked over to Rack Daddy’s to shoot some pool. Bob was in a generous mood, and kept buying us all Jagerbombs. I’m not the biggest fan of Jagermeister, but Bob had decided that Jagerbombs were the BEST DRINKS EVER. I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise; plus, he was buying, and who was I to turn down free alcohol? And of course Jeff was getting free shots right and left because it was his birthday. So we shot some pool, sang some karaoke (mainly to get this one woman off the stage who insisted on singing off-key Bette Midler songs ALL FRIGGIN’ NIGHT), and took 6 or 7 shots each. We were feeling pretty darn good.
We decided to leave the bar, but on the way back to Bob’s place, we stopped at the grocery store for a bottle of champagne each. There was a footrace in the parking lot resulting in a lost flip-flop at some point, but the details are fuzzy. Anyway, we made our weaving way back to Bob’s, where we proceeded to play a very elaborate drinking game, the name of which escapes me. When we had finished our champagne, we decided that we needed MORE ALCOHOL. It was after one, and the city had stopped selling alcohol, so I was deemed sober enough to drive down the street to my place to bring back the case of beer in my fridge. In retrospect, seeing as how I was so drunk I badly keyed my own car door trying to unlock it, this was NOT AT ALL wise. But I managed to make the beer run without killing myself or others.
So after half a dozen shots, a bottle of champagne, and four or five beers each, what do we decide to do? Go swimming, of course! I borrowed some shorts and a T-shirt from Bob, and he, Jeff, Joe, and I trooped down to Bob’s pool, where we spent some time in the hot tub. Well, Jeff and I decided that we wanted to head back to Bob’s apartment (yes, I’m THAT kind of drunk), so we borrowed Bob’s keys while he and Joe hung out in the hot tub for a while longer. This is where my memory starts to go. I vaguely remember some trouble with the lock, but we got the door open and stumbled inside. I also vaguely remember taking a shower, and being puzzled by the absence of a shower curtain. Later I was mystified because there were no sheets on the bed. I don’t remember anything after that, but am told that much energetic activity ensued, at the height of which I promptly passed out.
Well, about 5 hours later, I woke up, still slightly drunk, but sober enough to tell that I would have the mother of all hangovers later that day. I staggered to the bathroom, which I was surprised to find soaking wet (remember the shower sans shower curtain?) and covered in vomit. I am told the vomit was mine, but I remember nothing. It dawned on me that Bob and Joe must be asleep in the next room, and I was naked. My clothes from last night were soaking wet, so I cast about for my dry clothes. I couldn’t find them. So I peeked into the living room. There was nothing there. No, I mean, there was NOTHING there. Nothing on the walls, no empty champagne/beer bottles, no passed out Bob and Joe on the couch, NOTHING. Only the furniture that came with the apartment, which was immaculately clean. Where were Bob and Joe? Were they playing some elaborate joke on us? Why had they removed all the pictures from the wall? And why would they have cleaned up the mess we made last night? Surely they weren’t that sober yet. I was baffled. I went back into the bedroom, where I noticed a box of tampons on the counter. “Hmm, that’s strange,” I thought. “Why on earth does Bob have a box of tampons sitting on his counter? And where the hell are our dry clothes? They were right there on the floor last night. Those fuckers took our clothes when they took out all the furniture! What the HELL is going on??” You see, the sad truth had not dawned on me. I woke up a very groggy Jeff and told him that I thought Bob and Joe must be playing a very elaborate and twisted practical joke on us, because they’d taken all of Bob’s stuff and our clothes. I think I imagined all of Bob’s home décor sitting outside in the parking lot or something (I was still pretty toasted). Jeff, however, caught sight of the tampons on the counter. “HOLY SHIT!! GET DRESSED NOW!! I DON’T CARE IF YOUR CLOTHES ARE STILL WET; WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE NOW!!!”
You see, Jeff at once realized what my mind refused to process. In our drunken stupor last night, we’d managed to get into the wrong apartment. College Park was so cheaply made that, apparently, Bob’s keys opened other people’s doors. We’d accidentally broken into some girl’s apartment, who, it appeared, was in the process of moving out. We hadn’t realized our mistake the previous night because 1) we were shitfaced and 2) all the apartments have the same floorplan and furniture. It looked like Bob’s place. We’d unlocked her door with Bob’s key, flooded her bathroom, vomited all over her bathroom floor, and, having just come from the pool and shower, obviously without having found any towels, had very wet sex (well, almost) in her bed. We got out of there in record time and managed to find Bob’s apartment. However, Bob and Joe were not there. Exhausted, hung over, and mortified, Jeff and I left a message for Bob and went home.
Later I found out that Bob and Joe had spent the night on Bob’s stoop, wondering where the hell we were with his keys. At first they assumed we were inside, and spent a while beating on the doors and windows until the neighbors threatened to call the cops if they didn’t shut the hell up. At this point they went back to Joe’s place to crash. When Bob called me later, he was furious (understandably). But when I explained what had happened, he was too busy laughing his ass off to stay mad.
