(snicker) Could be because I’m a little stinker. Scared ya, though!
Well, I really enjoyed those stories. 
In return, I offer two - one about myself, and one about my best friend.
1. Pseudo-Satanism
My story of drugged foolishness was about the time, many many years ago, when my highschool friends and I made the decision to drop acid and go camping in a ravine reasonably near where I live. Silly us.
All might have been well, had we set up the campsite before dropping. But we didn’t. As a result, setting up tents and collecting firewood became - interesting. Too interesting.
The accident happened when one of my friends was cutting up firewood - the poor-quality axe slipped (the plastic handle-guard was loose) - and the axe cut his foot. Confusion and panic resulted, but fortunately I had brought a first aid kit, my injured friend was remarkably cool about the whole thing, the wound was not serious and we managed to bandage him up. He was okay, but I was shaken - I remember looking down at my hands, covered in blood (he had bled copiously), and then looking up to see the sunset and thinking “the night has only just begun”. NOT comforting!
But, the main problem was that of course we had little firewood and no inclanation to get any. It got dark. The fire started to go out. We kept it alive with balls of toilet paper, but there was a limit to how long we could keep doing that. Meanwhile, the drug effect was really kicking in …
Just then, we see lights in the woods, moving towards us. Shit. Naturally, we thought of all sorts of paranoid things.
But when the lights arrived, it turned out to be a couple of kids from our highschool, whom we knew by sight but not well. They had heard there was a “ravine party” and were there with beer to party it up.
With one accord, we all (I think there were nine of us) turned and said: “We Need Firewood!”. The two kids rushed off, and returned shortly with masses of wood. Problem solved!
Naturally, none of us were acting exactly normally: some were staring into the fire, others babbling to each other - I remember solemly explaining to one of the visitors that I never realized how interesting the bones of my hand were.
The pair said something like, “um, I guess we will be going now” and departed.
What we quite failed to realize was the impression we had made.
When the two arrived, they saw the nine of us were acting strangely. They had no idea we were on acid. Then, they saw the bloody axe, propped against a tree - the puddles of blood lying about - the bloodstains on our clothes … none of us thought to explain about the injury (and the injured foot was covered with a sock).
The rumours flying around our school later were - well - interesting, and not very complementary!
2. The Naked Chef
My friend’s tale is more straightforward debachery.
She is a very good-looking woman who lives alone in a small apartment building (a very large house cut into apartments), and has many interesting and amusing “bad date” stories. This is I think the best.
She went on a date with a snooty (but apparently good looking) young French chef whom she met through a friend of a friend. They had dinner (good) and went back to her place to drink a little.
Unfortunately, chef-boy had a few too many (I should mention that my friend, although petite, has a large capacity for drink), and was in no state to continue the date, or even, to go home. So my friend made up a bed for him on the living room couch, and went to bed herself.
Only to be awoken by the cops shining their flashlights in her eyes, early in the morning.
What happened was this. Chef boy had woken up, taken off his clothes, and wandered off in search of the bathroom. However, still being plastered, he somehow wandered in the wrong direction, and walked out the apartment door.
Not finding a bathroom there, and in urgent need of a piss, he wandered out the front door and relieved himself on the lawn - only to find that the front door had locked behind him.
Unable to get back in, stark naked, and not knowing which (unlabeled) buzzer to push, he did the logical thing - fell asleep again, on the “welcome” mat.
The landlord was unamused to find a naked man on the front porch, and called the cops. The cops, after hearing his garbled story, went to check up on my friend, to make sure she was safe. They had no problem getting in, as chef boy had left her apt. door wide open.
Chef boy went down to the station. My friend was concience-striken, but only until she heard that his wife (of whom there had been no mention) had showed up at the station to bail him out!
Ack! I LOVE the bloody axe/camping story. That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day.
I was living in Santiago, Chile for a while in college. I was with a couple of friends, wandering around in the town of La Serena pretty late at night. We were all incredibly drunk. After weaving through a park for a while, one person sat down abruptly, taking us all with her. We all fell asleep for a while - none of us has any idea for how long. When we woke up, it was still dark, and we all wanted to sleep in a bed, so we stumbled back to the hostel where we were staying. We went to sleep and were awoken at about 4:30 a.m. by bomb sirens. Apparently, the power had gone out in the town, which triggers bomb sirens. All of us woke up and hit the deck, crawling under the beds we were sleeping on, convinced we were being attacked. We were all squeaking in surprise - our heads hurt too much to scream - when the owner of the hostel came up to see what the commotion was. She walked in and immediately started laughing hysterically. Once she quieted down, she assured us that everything was fine, so we all climbed back into bed and went to sleep again. Oh, and while we had been getting drunk, my friend drank a bottle of her foundation (makeup), because she thought it was a small bottle of liquor. That was hilarious. Ah, those were the days…
I myself thought the naked chef story was much funnier - mainly because it didn’t happen to me! 
My poor friend though was very embarrased by the whole thing - the landlord made snide comments for awhile. I laughed until I hurt when I heard it.
We were getting pretty buzzed one weekend in grad school. A couple of guys in the department had a place out in the country and several of us went out to party with them in the unrestricted confines of central Texas. A couple were, in fact, combining beer with acid, much to our later bemusement.
One of the bi-partakers was on crutches and when we stopped at a corner store to get beer, it took him forever to manipulate his way back to the counter whilst holding onto a 12 pack. Other patrons hated to cut in front of him so there was quite a line by the time he made it to the front. These were country types, decent folk who’d never seen a drunk guy on crutches with acid giggles just starting to kick in before.
We’d already paid for our beer and sat out in the truck and watched the show unfold. Dug, our friend, being a poor college student placed his beer up on the counter, leaned his crutches against it as well and balancing on one leg started digging in his pockets for change. He started pulling out handfulls of pennies, nickles and dimes and started slapping them down in a growing pile. All the while the line continued to grow and people began peeering over each other’s shoulder to “see what the idiot was doing.”
The whole thing is so freakin’ wierd that Dug starts to giggle really bad. Then pennies are falling on the floor and the clerk’s getting upset and Dug’s laughing even harder. He bends over to scrape change off the floor and knocks down his crutches and falls onto the change.
So we’re sitting it the truck watching him lay on the floor and giggle and sweep up pennies and refuse to look any of the dozen or so freaked out country folk in the eye. Finally he just tosses all his money on the counter, some old guy in a straw hat hands him his crutches, he fumbles together his beer and hops giggling out the door and to the truck. Idiot.
The next morning we’re hungover and in a daze and this neighbor starts banging on the door. We look out and see the entire cornfield by the house on fire, eight or ten acres. Two or three fire stations respond and Dug and Greg, still tripping on acid, are running around with wet blankets inbetween all these firemen trying to put the blaze out. Still buzzed ourselves, it was a truly bizarre sight.
Turns out Dug had dumped the charcoal embers from supper out in the field that morning. I’ll never forget the sight of him bug eyed and sooty faced holding that tiny wet blanket in a big black field. Idiot.
A few months ago, my friends Claire, Diana, Evan, and David decided we were gonna go out drinkin’. So we roll up in the car, and start to drink in the parking lot of the high school we attended at the time. I drink, and drink, and drink, as does everyone else.
We run the bases of the baseball diamond, walk around the fields, yell, sing, dance in the dugouts, the usual. It was a foggy, foggy night–you couldn’t see more than 10 feet in any direction.
So after a while, most of us are completely gone, having drunk more than our share of whiskey and rum. Of course, we didn’t have our shot glasses with us, so I was demonstating the proper technique of chugging liquor. Whoo-boy! Faster you chug, less you taste it, right?
Then a car starts to drive towards us. So we hide, laughing, thinking its a few bored kids or something.
But, no, it was the police.
I run and hide in a small clump of bushes, about 10 feet from the parking lot. There I crouched, hoping they would leave soon. I have no clue where everyone else ran to, so I wait and watch. I also think “Hmm…maybe if I make myself vomit, I will sober up.” So I did.
The police cruise by, bet out of the car, and, I realize, start to run a lisence plate check. Crap.
I then see Evan, owner of the car, crawl out from the shadows. I ask what he is doing, and he says he has to go take the heat and that I should run.
So I crawl, on my belly. I can’t see where anyone is, and I am very very bleary of mind. I army-crawl through long, soaking grass for a few hundred yards. I remember just lying in the grass, wondering if it would be okay to just stay there til morning.
The police have now left, but I still had no clue where anyone was.
I make it to the road, and decide I have no choice but to walk home. I have no cell phone, it is about 1:30 am, and I live two and a half miles from school. So I start walking. But the police keep driving by…
Every time I saw a car, I jumped into the nearest hiding place, afraid that the police will catch me. I wonder if anyone noticed dents in their flowers the next morning.
After walking-hiding-walking-hiding, ad infinitum, I hear, “LORNA!” from a car coming towards me. Good friend of mine, Laura, rolled down her window and told me to get in. I have never been so relieved.
Shit, my eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets when I read the name “Evan”. That’s my first name, and it is a rare one around where I live - I am used to every reference to “Evan”, being to me.
I hope he is a good guy - from the story, at least he seems to have guts, if small in the brains department. Taking a car to a drink/stonerfest is a no-no for me! 
Shit, my eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets when I read the name “Evan”. That’s my first name, and it is a rare one around where I live - I am used to every reference to “Evan”, being to me.
I hope he is a good guy - from the story, at least he seems to have guts, if small in the brains department. Taking a car to a drink/stonerfest is a no-no for me!
tdn just reminded me of something… No, I wasn´t there, but it happened to a friend of mine and I´ve had it confirmed from several mutual friends who were there.
It was at a national (university) students council meeting in Germany, and everyone was sleeping on the floor of a school gym. After the official debates and whatnot, the festivities began. Everyone got pretty drunk, some more than others. Needless to say, my friend was among the really drunk ones. At some point, they all hit the sack and all was still, except for the snoring of several hundred students.
In the wee hours, my friend decides he needs to take a leak.
He gets up, stumbles across the room, finds the next wall and lets it flow. The guy lying right there underneath him wakes up to something warm and wet trickling all over him and is not too pleased. He starts shouting at him and asks him if he´s out of his mind. People start waking up and staring. My friend, unshaken, decides he needs to get back to sleep, grabs the nearest sleeping bag, shakes its occupant out of it, gets in and passes out.
To this day, he claims he can´t remember a thing.
When he went there again the following year, he wasn´t too warmly greeted by some of the participants…
I’d had a shitty day at work. Hugh, my roommie, had a shitty day at work. My third roommie, Shannon, had a shitty day looking for work. We went to a local restaurant, had a few margaritas, and then had the bright idea to go to the local Safeway and get some lemons and a quart of Mezcal for the rest of the evening.
Needless to say we got massively drunk on shooters that night. I don’t remember much except watching Shannon puke in a planter, crawling to bed and passing out. I was the only one who didn’t barf that night, something I eventually lived to regret.
The next day I spent most of it in bed. By 5:00 in the evening I was still hung over but rather hungry. Hugh and I decided to go to a local Hari Krishna restaurant to get some “healthy” food. Right then Hugh’s friend, a complete social retard by the name of Neil, gives him a call and invites himself along with us.
I should have just stayed home and made some Top Ramen, but no. Hugh begs me to go with him. He doesn’t want to deal with Neil by himself.
We tell Neil about the night before during dinner, and during the walk home we got peppered with non-stop questions such as “why would you want to do a thing like that? Why do you want to get drunk? I don’t understand why you didn’t stop? Do you like getting drunk like that?” All the way back the guy just doesn’t shut up.
We get to Buena Vista Park, about 2/3 of the way home, when my lack of purging catches up with me. I dash up the steep slopes of the park, and proceed to puke up my seitan salad with mint (yeesh what was I thinking?) dressing. In the background I hear Neil yelling, quite loudly, “OH MY GOD WHAT IS SHE DOING? SHE’S PUKING! WHY IS SHE PUKING? EWWW! SHE’S PUKING!” over and over and over and over again.
Good ol’ Neil. I’ve never been that drunk or that horrified ever again.
There are Hari Krishna restaurants??? :eek:
Warning: The stunts in this Story were performed by a Professional Drunk. Do Not Attempt.
I was 22 and new to binge drinking. I rarely had hangovers then, so there were no consequences for me to change my ways. But I was scared quite effectively one evening and it kept me away from The Sauce - for a week or so.
There was this guy. I liked him a lot and I wanted him to think I was SuperCool. So for his birthday one winter I said to him: I’ll pick you up, we’ll go to The Bar, and you can get as plastered as you want, I’ll make sure you get home.
He agreed, we went, and I swiftly forgot my driving promise and proceeded to drink like it was going out of style. Closing Time rolls around, and I manage to drive guy to his home, about a 15 minute drive from the bar. He says thanks and leaves the vehicle. The drive home is where it gets nutty.
It’s 3 am. I decide to hop on the freeway to get home a little faster. The on-ramp was a hill and as I near the top of the hill, I decide that I need some tunes, really badly. I lean over and down to put a tape in the tape deck, taking my eys off the road. I feel a BUMP but I’m still moving. I look up and somehow I have bounced over the thin grassy median and I am now driving on the wrong side of the Interstate.
Thank Heavens that I lived in a relatively small town and the roads were COMPLETELY empty at this hour of night/morning. Now, seeing as how no one was coming right then, I could have easily stoped and done a U-turn there in that lane, got off at the next exit, and gone home via the regualr city roads. But in my drunken state, I couldn’t come up with that level of logic. No, instead i say to myself: Well, I bounced over, I can just bounce myself back to the correct side.
Ho ho. You’d THINK that would work, except at this point of the interstate, the median is no longer a thin grassy strip. It is now a larger grassy ravine that was rather soggy with mud from the rain earlier that evening. I turn right into it at about 20 miles an hour and promptly get stuck. Wheels spinning - no movement. I take my foot off the gas - look up, and what do you know? 2 police cars - one on each side of the interstate. Hooray! I think - for about 2 seconds. My next thought was Act Cool. Act SOBER.
One cop comes down to me and opens the door. He says “Are you all right Miss?” I say “Yes, I’m ok.” He asks if I have Motorists Insurance to have a tow truck come and pull me out. I take my insurance card out and give it to him, they phone for a tow truck. The policeman grabs my arm and assists me out of the muck, and I cross the interstate to sit in the cruiser. My first time in the back of a police car and all i can think is “Why are these seats so damn HARD? Where’s the upholstery?” There are two policemen sitting in the front seat. They ask for my license. They ask me: How much have you had to drink tonight? This being my first time in the fosterage of The Man, i thought it best not to lie - very much. I stated that I had had about 6 or 7 beers. I had NO idea that this was supposed to be a lot. I pounded WAY more than that on any given night and gotten myself home without incident. They look at each other and their eyebrows go up a bit. They ask me if I know how expensive a DUI charge is. And I said “Yes, Sir I do.” They said “Ok, well, just sit back, and we’ll get you towed out.” Meanwhile I have to pee like a racehorse. So I sit and I’m trying really hard to be cool, and ACT SOBER. They talk amongst themselves the rest of the time. An HOUR goes by and finally the car is out of the ditch and on the other side of the Interstate. The cops start up the cruiser, exit the highway, cross the street and get back ON the highway on the same entrance that I just used an hour earlier, and they pull up behind the truck. My piece-of-crap trying-to-be-a-sports-car looked like I had gone Off-Roading in it. White car with mud up to the windows. The cops say to me “Ok Miss, just tell the tow driver where you live, he’ll get you home. Have a good night.”
I’m not thinking this is anything spectacular, it’s only afterwards in relating the story that I realized how close I came to A) of course, KILLING someone, myself included BIG BIG SHAME ON ME B) paying a HUGE fine C) being without my license for several months. So I’m riding with the tow driver, and I still have to take a MONSTER piss. He gets me home in 5 minutes, I hop out of the car, and then I feel like I shouldnt run into the house, I better stay outside and watch him unhook my muddy vehicle. So I’m standing in my yard, and he’s unhooking the car. And he’s taking his good ol’ time with it.
I mentioned earlier that this was wintertime, yes? No snow on the ground, but still bitter cold. And if you know what cold weather does to a full bladder, then you’ll understand why I had to piss myself. It couldn’t be helped. I’m not sure if the driver noticed, it was pretty dark out and they were dark-colored jeans. I simply stood patiently then and waited for him to hop up in his truck.
The next morning my step-dad asked if I had had a little adventure last night, my car was awful muddy. I told him the whole story, leaving nothing out, and he promised he wouldnt tell Mom, if I promised to never do something so scary and stupid again. And it was years before I broke that promise. C’est la vie.:rolleyes:
The last time I got horribly, vomitously drunk was in 1990. The time before that was in 1972. By that reckoning, I’m due to get thoroughly plastered again sometime in 2008. I should probably start planning the party now…
Hehehe, sounds like we should plan one hell of a dopefest, jr8!!
I’m staying (relatively) sober for the upcoming Londope [that’s August 23 at the Silver Cross on Whitehall, folks], as I’m playing quizmaster. <cackles evilly>
I got drunk enough once to try and pick up a girl by attempting to explain the Many-Worlds theory of quantum mechanics. In Japanese. I guess I can console myself that in one of those universes, it actually worked.
As for other occasions, well, Cerowyn has posted the pictures here, and I’ll just leave it at that. Next time, though, I’m bringing the camera.
Hahaha, I have too many stories to list them all. I was quite the drinker in college. As were several of my friends. Don’t drink much since graduation, though, anymore.
The Lights of Israel by Neurotik.
There are five of us drinking in my friend M’s basement. It’s a sweet little set up with a TV, several video game systems, a bar, a pool table, a bathroom, a fridge, some couches…all in all, a good drinking location. I had just gotten in to Baltimore from Anaheim, where I am originally from. I was met at the airport by a friend and we went to M’s house to celebrate as it was the first time the four of us (roommates during college) had seen each other in several months.
We start out with a few Screaming Nazis (Jaegar and Rumpleminz). Several photos are taken of us toasting our shots, etc. Good times. After about four Screaming Nazis, we decide to play some video game on M’s Dreamcast. Naturally, we chose Quake III so we could blow each other to bits in manly bonding. In the mean time, we continue to drink - beer, jaegar shots, tequila shots, the usual suspects. I’m quite buzzed at this time and clearly not feeling well. So I wander into the basement’s bathroom and proceed to throw up. Fortunately, I make it back out a few minutes later in time for our next jaegar shot. Perhaps you can see where this is going. I’m really quite buzzed now, borderline drunk when M says, “Hey guys, I have a surprise for you!”
We all look at each other quizzically while M proceeds to pull out a copy of Dude, Where’s My Car? We all ask him why the hell he rented that, and he asks if we remembered. I sort of did, but was afraid of the answer.
When the movie first came out, M and I were making jokes about the movie and how we might see it just to see how bad it was. Our other friend, S, began to tell us we were crazy to even be contemplating watching that drivel. As M and I continue to bug S about it, he finally says, “The only thing that movie would be good for is to wait until it comes out on video, rent it, then use it in a drinking game where you have to take a shot every time you groan in disgust.”
Well, that’s just M did. Above S’s protests, we pop in the film and begin our game. This is where things get hazy. Within the first fifteen minutes we’ve all taken three shots of jaegar at least. We quickly decide that we might need to switch to beer if we are to survive this movie. Alas, that decision came to late for me, as I had already drank more than anyone else so far due to legitimate reasons other than my borderline alcoholism of the time. This is where things get blurry for me, although I do remember at one time groaning at a terrible, terrible joke and M looking at me and telling me to take a drink. I look back at him, ready to cry from drunkenness and the horrible movie, and plead, “That wasn’t a groan, it was a cry of agony.” M let me off the hook because I was quite trashed at this point. Along with most other people.
Soon afterwards, I get up from my spot on the couch, stumble around the pool table and end up right back about where I was. I then begin to gaze around the room, vainly searching for something I know should be there. All the while, I am blocking the view to the “film.” M finally asks me what I’m looking for and I tell him a toilet. I know it’s there somewhere. Just gotta find it. M kindly turns me 180 degrees and sends me to the bathroom. Keep in mind I’d been there several times so I knew full well where the bathroom was. Even puked in it earlier. This about where I stop remembering.
After about five minutes, M still hadn’t heard me flush the toilet or anything, so he’s hoping I haven’t passed out on the bathroom floor or something. A few seconds later he starts to hear a “rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…SQUEAKrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…SQUEAKrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” sound coming from the vicinity of the bathroom. M looks at S and asks him to go and investigate what the hell I’m doing.
S walks down the hall and sees me standing in the doorway of the storage room next to the bathroom playing with the door. I would let it slowly begin to shut on its own (rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr) and then would tap it back open (SQUEAK) whereupon the door would begin to shut again (rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr). I was leaning against the door jamb completely in the middle of the doorway, perpendicular to what the door would be if it was able to close all the way. Which it couldn’t do to my presence.
S then asks, “What the hell are you doing.”
“Looking for the light.”
S looks at me, then reaches around me and switches on the light. “You mean this light?”
“Dude, no,” I say. “Not those lights. The lights of Israel.”
S stared at me for a few seconds then walked back to the “film.”
I apparently made it back as I woke up the next morning on the couch. No one to this day has any knowledge of what the fuck I was talking about.
You were searching for the Israel-lights?