I’ll be honest with you guys; this was a tough one to come up with. I don’t want to brag too much, but I’ve been quite drunk quite a few times. For every good story I came up with, I was promptly reminded of a different time where I was even drunker. After searching the dark recesses of my mind and contacting some drinking buddies, I realized that one story stands out like a wine-drinker at a dive bar, and it happened on my trip to the homeland a few years back.
Technically, I could make the argument that the entire three-week visit was the drunkest I have ever been, since I don’t recall a day when I wasn’t heavily enthusing with some cousin, uncle, or childhood friend. Seriously, it was 21 days of non-stop alcohol consumption, but one drunken blur of a night stands head and shoulders above the rest (and it wasn’t the wedding that was the genesis of the trip, that’s a story for later).
At some point half-way through my visit, two of my cousins and I decided that we needed to have a night away from the older relatives and hit up a club for some drinking and trashy techno music, a European tradition. Since we’re seasoned pros, we went to the local liquor store for pregaming supplies. We left with three 500mL bottles of high-quality vodka and jar of pickles—which are seriously the best chaser ever, trust me.
The first bottle was drier than the Sahara by the time we set out for the club, and we were halfway through the second one when we arrived. There was a bit of a line, and the bouncer was being a total douche about us bringing in a half-empty bottle, so we decided to hide it in the bushes for later. The club was everything I could have asked for. People were dancing, drinking, drunkenly singing along, and the place reminded me of the club in XXX when Vin Diesel meets with the bad guys the first time.
We had more shots, several beers, and countless Kamikazes as we danced the night away; and when we left at around 4 am, we successfully recovered our half-bottle from the bushes.
At some point during the walk home, we killed the second bottle, threw my cousin’s t-shirt over a construction fence (still don’t know why), peed on a Mercedes, got yelled at by cops, ran from the cops, and successfully evaded said cops. When we got home, we polished off the entire third bottle and the remaining pickles as we stayed up until sunrise reminiscing about our childhoods. Sometime after that, my film broke and the next thing I remember is waking up at 2 pm to my dad and uncle trying to coax me out of bed with a beer because we had to go to some other relative’s house … still hammered, I thought “oh shit, here we go again.”
Pickles image courtesy of James, flickr.