Jul
21
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Lost in Portland

—Haley

So, this one time when two of my favorite folks were in town…I got LOST.

There’s getting lost, being lost, and getting LOST. Getting lost can happen to most anyone, at any time. Being lost and getting LOST, I feel, are reserved for the habitually enthusiastic. Like the time I was shooting for 12th and Ladd and wound up at 28th and Stark with a skid mark all the way down my right arm (from connecting with a van while trying to slow my bike down enough to read a god forsaken street sign). I’d say this counts as being lost. Once I figured out what street I was on I knew where I was. Entirely different from getting LOST.
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Jun
29
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Best dormie ever

—Josey

The story of the drunkest I’ve ever been is more depressing than funny. Same with the second drunkest, and the third. And maybe more than that. I’d rather not leave you feeling halfway dead inside, so I’ll tell you a different story: Let’s call it the approximately ninth to twelfth drunkest I’ve ever been.

It was spring semester of my freshman year in college in Manhattan and I was in a long distance relationship. What this means is that I spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone. My story starts with such a call, one weekend night when two friends and I had plans to venture to a goth club. They pre-gamed vodka and 40s for an hour or more while I told someone 3,000 miles away it was their turn to hang up first. When I emerged, it was time to leave, and the last thing I remember is proclaiming that I “needed to catch up,” and raising a mug brimming with cheap vodka to my lips.

When I came to, 12 hours later, I was in my bed, wearing my goth clothes from the night before, covered in crumbs and crumpled slices of potato bread. It was 11am. An empty bucket was perched next to my pillow and the windowsill was littered with several glasses of water in different states of fullness. “What, uh, happened last night?” I yelled across at my dozing roommate. “Ask me later.” She mumbled.

I made it to the goth club—just not through the front doors. Unable to stand and propped between two friends, the bouncer suggested they get me some food and come back later. “But I’m 18!” I insisted.
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May
27
2011

Drunk personality types: Part I

—Josey

Some people say that the way you act when you’re drunk is a reflection of your true personality. Partially repressed parts of your soul bubbling to the surface of your booze-addled brain. In vino veritas, and all that. Whether that’s totally accurate, or 90% accurate and really hard to admit, one thing’s for sure: Anyone who drinks has a drunk personality type. Your drunk personality may just be a louder, more naked, and less funny version of sober-you. Or maybe you’ve got some intense Jekyll and Hyde shit going on. Either way: your drunk personality emerges when you’re maximally inebriated, oft-blacked out, and it’s the heart and soul of your drunken self.

Here are some of the most common drunk personality types (and when you’re done reading this, check out Part II):


The Big Spender.
He’s not just getting rounds for the table—he’s buying shots of Patron for the whole bar. And then he’s buying everybody lap dances at the Gold Club. In the VIP room. With bottle service. Sure, his internship in the mail room of the insurance company doesn’t exactly pay well, and he’s only on a three-month contract—but he’s got tomorrow’s due rent in cold, hard cash, some almost-maxed out plastic for “emergencies only,” and he knows how to use it. What could be more important than treating his new, best friends to a night on the town they’ll never forget? Suite at the W? Where else would we have the afterparty? Limos home for everyone? So much better than cabs or walking! Plane tickets to Jamaica for all the mailroom interns? I’ve always wanted to go there! The Big Spender can be easily spotted: He’s the guy screaming, “what have I done? What have I done??” in the lobby of the W any given Saturday morning.
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Jun
11
2010

4 incredibly assed-out things that I do when I’m drunk

 

#4: Try to get your dog drunk.

Look, this one’s horrible. You should never give a dog alcohol. But when I get rippin’, I will try. (I could include high, but that takes a little work and let’s face it; if you are going to work that hard to get a dog to inhale a popper or swallow some X, it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that you intend to fuck it. Good pet owners, shit, even bad ones—the kind they arrest on “Animal Cops”—have the foresight to remove their animal from your vicinity before said fuckage occurs.)

Anyway. Somehow cats have the foresight to get themselves the hell out of these situations, and go knock around the mouse turds on the top of your fridge, but dogs will walk into any goddamn room with people in it and start eating and drinking anything at their eye level. Ashtrays. Bongwater. And oh yes, that dish of Mickey’s I just poured.

Fucking relax. This is a close up of Joan Rivers trying to kiss her own reflection. In some bongwater I spilled.

Before you go call PETA, I should let you know that I have never successfully pulled this off. Apparently, dogs don’t like the smell of shame or failure, both of which emanate strongly from me and have permeated my clothing.

“I don’t love them clothes.”

See?
 

#3: SHOUT EVERY SINGLE THING I SAY.

Like:

“BRO! BRO-BRO! CHECK OUT YOUR DOG! DUDE! MAN! HE’S SO FUCKING WAAAAAYSTED!”
“…the fuck, man…My dog isn’t moving, dude! What’d you do to him?

“SO LIKE, WHAT? YOU AND YOUR MAN HAVIN’ TROUBLES? YOU NEED TO TALK? YOU SHOULD COME OVER AND CHECK OUT MY STEREO…MY DAD GOT IT FOR ME…YEAH, HE OWNS A DEALERSHIP…”
“Dude. Why are you talking to my girlfriend?”

“…BUT I’M LIKE, COOL WITH IT, ‘COS IT’S NOT GAY IF YOUR BALLS DON’T TOUCH, RIGHT?? RIGHT??”
“Um, yeah, man. It kind of is.”

“HELL YEAH I’LL DRINK PAINT THINNER!! THINNA!! YEEEEEAH! THINNA FO DINNA! THINNADINNA! THINNAMADINDIN!! WHOOOOO!”
“Hey, can you chill out just a bit? You need to calm down.”
 

#2: Find a way to sing “Baby Got Back.”

I LIKE BIG BUTTS ON A CAN OF FLIES! YOUR OTHER BROTHER MOTHER AND MINE!

The kitchen was packed a moment ago….bitches can’t handle my hand of conga…

I’m not sure I need to elaborate on this much more…
 

#1: Piss everywhere BUT the toilet.

I don’t know what makes me think I am clever when I stumble into your bathroom and pee on every roll of toilet paper in there, but I gotta say, it’s funny as shit when I’m doing it.

In hindsight, I’m pretty sure that nothing puts a woman in a throat punching, stiletto heel heart stabbing, testicle crushing, murderous rage than having your skirt around your waist and grabbing a handful of piss sopped pulp to wipe with. Fortunately, you can gratify those throat-punchy, heart-stabby, ball-crushy urges practically instantly, because I’ll just be in the next room telling my “secret” to the dudes.

By shouting it.

DUDE, DUDE! DON’T SAY ANYTHING BUT I JUST PISSED ALL OVER THE PLACE! I DECIMATED EVERY ROLL KEVIN HAS, MAN! DUDE! NO ONE CAN TOP THAT!!

Oh, wait.

(This may explain the sexual “Dry Spell” I went through from 1989-2009.)
Wipe that fucking smirk off your face. 2010 ain’t over yet.

 
—Jason

Dog photo courtesy of Mike Fischer,  flickr.
Snoop photo courtesy of chicagofabulous,  flickr.
Drunk dancing photo courtesy of melle oh, flickr.
R Kelly photo courtesy of andrew steinmetz, flickr.
Joan Rivers photo courtesy of david shankbone, flickr.

 


Jun
07
2010

Drunk of the Day

Let’s travel back a couple years, and to a place its locals occasionally refer to as “San Diego.”

It was somebody who may or may not also write for this blog’s birthday, and he may or may not have been turning a year that was one shy of a quarter century. What better way to celebrate, he might have mulled, than crashing for a weekend at a friend’s home in California’s most stereotypically sun-filled of cities? A perfect venue for copious daytime-beach into nighttime-bar-hop booze binging.

The birthday eve began as many had before, with a promise among several present to ingest a certain number of drinks that equaled the years that this possible-future blogger was aging towards. Sharpies were located and stuffed in jean pockets, for keeping semi-permanent tally.

Twenty-four increasingly wavy, lengthy, and/or jagged lines snaked around the forearms of the participants’ arms before the clock ticked past three hours prior to West Coast last call. And the night, she was young yet.
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Apr
06
2010

Drunk of the Day: “Where you there when I was asleep?”

—Josey

We are looking to move into a better apartment and thus, spent a recent Saturday afternoon scoping out potential future abodes. Little did we know that while touring one (pretty damn nice, but way isolated) building, we’d meet the Drunk of the Day.

Drunk of the Day wandered out of his door and into the hallway just as our group was exiting one available place and moving on to see another. Sugar free Red Bull in hand, he asked us if we would like to see what a furnished loft looked like. We all agreed and followed him inside his place. He explained his various hip and artsy furnishings and accessories in great detail (these are the many mirrors we look at ourselves in while getting ready to go out, this is my display of Mary artifacts—although I’m not religious, this is a prop door) and came across as incredibly friendly and generous, albeit eccentric, and maybe nursing an enthusiasm-over.

Once we left his loft and Drunk of the Day proclaimed he would like to join us on the tour, things took a turn. In the elevator D.o.t.D. turned again to the group and asked if we would like to see what his loft looked like. Silence ensued as the tour guide muttered awkwardly that we’d already seen it. “Were you there when I was asleep?” he asked, looking bewilderedly around the crowded car. Nervous laughter, darting eyes. “So. . . what have you been up to? Not sleeping much?” Our tour guide inquired. “Actually, I’ve been on a 30-day drinking binge,” D.o.t.D. announced in a strangely clear and unwavering voice. “I’m living off of these.” He held up his can of sugar free Red Bull.

The moral of this story is that just because someone isn’t slurring their speech, falling over and/or hitting their head on shit, lighting their smoke on the filter end, or buying the whole bar a round of red headed stepchild shots—it doesn’t mean they’re not blacked out drunk.

 

Photo courtesy of mfarjado, flickr.