Ah, Thanksgiving. As everyone’s favorite excuse to eat lots of food guilt free while watching football and gathering with friends and family approaches, I’d like to use this blog as an opportunity to celebrate the unsung hero of many get-togethers. It’s the magical potion that gets your rump off the stump and sends you rolling through the leaves instead; the awesome sauce that will make your granny want to bust a move. I’m talking of course, about alcohol (and occasionally other substances, depending on your preference). While we don’t condone everything that we talk about in this blog, we’d like to take the opportunity to look back and laugh on some of the times “getting turnt went wrong.”
Andrew's Post
1) The first funny story I distinctly remember happened right before I graduated high school with two friends of mine we’ll call Ned and J-Man. J-Man is an incredibly mellow guy who is hard to excite, which becomes relevant later in the story. Anyways, one particular weekend night we had been hanging out and participating in some social taboos when we decided to fix our overwhelming hunger with a trip to our local Waffle House. It was a grand time, as all times are at the House of Waffles; music was played, laughs were had, and hash browns were “scattered,” “scrambled,” “covered,” and “chunked” to our liking's.
After some time had passed, Ned started to become very paranoid about our predicament. He gave J-Man and me a look as if all of our collective mothers had walked in the door at once and the jig was up. He then informed us, very sincerely, that he believed the waitress didn’t like our presence there and had said something to another employee about phoning in the policia. If I had been sober, this idea would’ve been brushed aside with ease. However, zombie-brained logic prevailed and I was dead set on doing whatever it took to get out of this situation. Ned then told an unresponsive J-Man and myself that we should immediately leave the cash for our meals and rush out to his car so that we could escape the long arm of the law. I agreed and we threw down our money and rushed out the door to the parking lot where we hopped in his car.
Ready to hightail it out of there, Ned started his engine but we were stopped in our tracks when we realized one fatal error in our plan: J-Man had neglected to follow us to the car and was still slumped in the booth inside! “What the hell is he doing?!” Ned asked frantically.
“I don’t know!” I yelled back. “I’ll call him.”
I sat in the front seat, called J-Man and watched as he picked up his phone only to look at it, ignore the call, and place the phone back in his pocket.
“What the hell?!” Ned yelled. “Call him again!”
We were on edge as a police cruiser was sure to pull into the parking lot at any second and arrest us for...I don’t know...eating breakfast at night? I did as I was instructed and again watched J-Man pull the phone out of his pocket and look at it, only this time he decided to pick it up. Nonchalantly, J-Man said “hello?”
“Dude what the fuck?!” I yelled, “come on and get in the car.”
Calmly as ever, J-Man responded “I can’t. I’ve gotta wait for my to go order first.”
Of course no cruiser ever responded to our tom foolery at the Waffle House and we continued to eat breakfast at ungodly hours well into our college years. J-Man also successfully walked out with his to go order.
2) The next story is both a cautionary tale against partying too hard, too soon and attempting to cut small things with big knives while intoxicated. It was my sophomore year of college and was sometime around Halloween. I know this because I had recently made a large purchase of alcohol in order to “pregame” before attending a party that night and had also made a purchase of a tiny pumpkin from the grocery store. I’m still not quite sure why I chose the tiny pumpkin rather than a regular sized one, but I can only speculate that college-logic told me to spend most of my money on booze and then to get whatever I could with the leftover dough. Now when I say small, I don’t mean I purchased a pie pumpkin. No, I decided the best option to show my Halloween spirit was to get the size that would fit in the size of your hand.
After purchasing all of the ingredients for my Halloween concoction, I returned to my dorm room to mix all of the ingredients together and create a stupid situation for myself. I started taking shots of whatever cheap, disgusting whiskey I had purchased in order to prepare for more drinking later that night (college-logic), and started texted friends about the party that was scheduled to go down that evening. However, as the time grew closer to when I was supposed to go out, I was in no condition to go anywhere and it was still unclear as to whether a party was actually happening. Finally, when 10 PM rolled around, I got a text that whatever was to be a party was busted and nothing else anyone knew of was happening.
It was at that moment that I realized I had two possible decisions: call it a night and sleep off my drunken state or keep my own party going in my dorm because Halloween and college-logic rules everything. I, of course, chose to continue taking shots and eventually gathered the courage to give everyone else in the dorms a taste of Halloween spirit by carving my miniature pumpkin I had acquired from the store earlier. I think I got about two cuts into carving the pumpkin when I lost control of the giant kitchen knife in my hand and sliced my left index finger open.
“Shit!” I yelled as the blood started pouring out of my finger.
The ever calm J-Man emerged from his side of the dorm and responded saying, “what?”
“I fucked it up!” I yelled. “Quick, give me a band-aid!”
“We don’t have any band-aids.”
“Damn. Do you have a shirt or something I can wrap around it?”
“Yeah, let me grab it.” J-Man proceeded to give me one of his bright white undershirts that I covered in blood.
“Thanks man,” I said, “I’ll be sure to wash this for you.”
“Nah you can just have that,” he responded.
I then spent the remainder of the night babbling on about god knows what and at one point forgot that I had eaten tums earlier in the evening, asking J-Man if I had rabies because it looked like I was foaming at the mouth. The next day I went to health services to ask them if I needed to get stitches, to which they said it would probably be a good idea. After learning of the price though, I decided to let it heal on it’s own, which it did (take that science!) and still have a faint reminder to that stupid, stupid night in the form of a scar.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Lukas' Post
Ha! I’d never heard that second story. Hm ok my first one is a story about alcohol being a huge cock block.
For 2 months in the Summer of 2015, I lived in a cabin in Black Mountain, North Carolina. Before I lived there, I used to party there with the people who later became my roommates. I went up one weekend in December for the cabin crew’s Christmas party, and as I expected, it was a fantastic time. Games were played, drinks were drunk, music was blasted, and everyone seemed pretty happy and content. At one point I found myself a little too fucked up, sitting comfortably by myself on the couch watching the fire burn in the fireplace. A very cute girl I’ll call “X” came and sat beside me on the couch and we started talking. I was enjoying my time with her, and I think in the back of my mind I could tell by the way she was leaning in and touching me that she was flirting with me. Really surprised I caught on, I’m normally horrible with nonverbal signals. But right around the time I recall noting to myself that she was awfully pretty and very in to touching, the booze overtook my tired brain and I fell asleep. I'm pretty sure mid-sentence. I woke up the next day hoping she'd slept there so I could apologize and keep talking with her, but she hadn't. The next few times I saw her socially she was polite, but I could tell she’d lost interest and I definitely didn't want to bring the sleeping mishap up. But it all worked out, now we're dating and pregnant. Not really though; actually I ended up hanging out with her and my roommates several months later and I didn't enjoy her at all. So maybe alcohol wasn't a cock block, but instead, the best kind of wingman - the kind that keeps you from doing things (or people) that you’ll probably regret.
No comments:
Post a Comment