Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about the aftermath. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which far outweigh the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.
The Propane Tank Fight (or the most drunk I have ever been)
I was never a big drinker as a teenager. I would have a few beers every now and then, and I seem to recall forcing my older sister to by me some fruity wine coolers and hard lemonades on occasion, but for the most part, my teenage years were spent breaking into construction trucks, unscrewing fire hydrants onto people’s front yards and throwing potatoes through car windows while driving (go ahead and tell the cops, the statute of limitations is up).
But by the time I was 18, I was afraid of going to big boy prison over my tomfoolery so my “boys will be boys,” phase ended abruptly. Stifled by federal and local laws, with no other real outlet in which to express myself until I was 21, I attacked my last coming of age time when it was upon me and compensated for my lack of troublemaking with a ferocity and tenacity for binge drinking that the world has rarely seen. And at my sister’s 25th birthday party, the perfect storm struck, drenching me in a proverbial downpour of an alcoholic monsoon.
The night started innocently enough. Family and friends arrived at my sister’s house. Jokes, appetizers and casual drinks were consumed. More people showed up, more drinks were drank. Jokes became funnier, people became louder and the music, well the music still sucked, but it was Stacy’s birthday so we had to tolerate it. My best friend Justin had come with me, and like the fucking devil on my shoulder that he has always been, kept the beer drinking at an ungodly pace.
At this point, the booze I had bought and brought to the shindig had been devoured, but I was no where near done. Justin and I started pilfering from the house stash. Poaching shots from other friends who were eager to share, and eventually resorting to drinking whatever was left in the cups that others had long since abandoned. Sensing that we were about to enter the land of no return, Justin wisely stopped drinking and evolved back into a functioning human. I however, was trapped inside my own game, much like Jeff Bridges in Tron, with zero chance of returning anytime soon.
I soon forced someone to drive my truck to the nearest liquor store to buy some rum, was promptly kicked out of the store for trying to piss on the potato chip display and forced to wait outside while my friend completed my transaction for me. Once back to my sister’s, Justin informed me that there was another party that he had to go to, but I could tag along if I felt like it. I quickly downed a couple of shots of rum, hastily said goodbye and threw my keys to a now, sober Justin. As we left my sister’s I realized suddenly that I had to piss the Nile River, right then and there.
So I jumped out of the moving vehicle, hauled two truckloads of ass back to my sister’s and walked in like I had never left. After urinating for seemingly three hours, I walked out, grabbed a beer and tried to leave to go back to my truck. My friend Kris stopped me and told me I could only drink the beer if I could down it in three second or less. Knowing full well that it is impossible to chug 12 ounces of beer in three seconds, her face twisted into equal parts horror and impressed as I did it in less than two. I stumbled back to the truck and yelled at Justin for taking so long to piss (even though it was me…) and told him that we were now late for my party (even though that was his…).
Now, I am not going to lie, the remainder of this story is not from my own memory, but was told to me by several eye witnesses as I was entirely too drunk to remember at this point. Facts are hazy the further removed I get from this story, but the following events are true as far as I know, and I have the scars to corroborate.
We arrive at the party, where I know absolutely no one. People are in the back smoking, others are in the living room playing some sort of faggy card game involving alcohol (for the record, I hate booze games. Just give me the bottle and get out of my damn way). and still others are dancing to the music in the back room. Justin does his best to introduce me to his friends, but I side step all of them, walk right up to the drunken card game, where a giant beer stine full of a horrible smelling concoction is brewing inside of it. I grab it off the table, chug the entire thing, slam the stine down and let out a belch that could have caused a tsunami in Japan.
Everyone at the table looked on in amazement until finally someone said, “Uh, that guy just drank 25 ounces of tequila, vodka, rum, and beer. How the fuck is he still alive, let alone standing?” I took a small bow and excused myself outside in search of more goodies that I could scavenge up. Justin is now in full on babysitter mode and follows me out back to make sure I don’t destroy anything or anyone in the process.
He props me up against the side of the house and goes over to talk to his friends and give himself some relief from my drunken shenanigans. About five minutes goes by and he hears me bellowing at someone to, “shut the fuck up, bitch.” After looking around and finding no one that I could possibly be talking to, he comes over and asks who I am talking to. I point in front of me and say, “that piece of shit right there who keeps saying crap about me.” Justin follows my finger until he sets his sights on my nemesis.
Justin: “Uhm, are you talking about the propane tank by the barbecue?”
Me: “I don’t give a fuck what his name is or who he knows, I am knocking his ass out.”
Justin: ” …it’s a propane tank…”
Me: “And he is talking shit.”
I push Justin off to the side and haphazardly try to take a swing at the propane tank. As you can imagine, my less than sober state left me terribly uncoordinated and unbalanced and before I anyone could realize what was happening, I was falling face first, hands at my side and nothing to break my fall…
…except the propane tank, of course.
My forehead connected squarely with the top lip of the tank, splitting my melon and leaving me face down in a gravel pile, surrounded by a substantial (and growing) puddle of my own, alcohol thinned blood. I was carried inside, cleaned up, and passed out sitting upright on the couch.
Two hours later, Justin woke me up and told me that we had to leave so that he could get to his family’s Easter celebration. Having completely forgotten that I was supposed to drive two hours north to my Grandmother’s to hang with family myself, I sprang up off the couch, realized I had no fucking clue where I was and immediately became dizzy to the point where I threw up on the carpet, splashing the poor folks who had decided to sleep there.
I somehow managed to get home, shower and be ready in time for my sister and her boyfriend to pick me up. On the way up to Santa Rosa, I asked them to pull over many times on account of having to puke, but to no avail. Not even a dry heave. It appeared that I was to suffer, much like Jesus had to, when all I wanted to do was be re-born by puking up gallons of booze. Ana alas, in Petaluma, on the side of 101 North, I was treated to seeing a bottle of tequila, half drunken with a cigarette butt floating in it, laying next to a dirty diaper that had been tossed from a car window and the purification process began.
Piles of puke poured out of me. My mouth looked like the levees breaking in New Orleans and there was nothing FEMA could do about it. I spent the next 25 minutes setting a new world record for the most volume of vomit to exit one human being in one breath before returning to the car and declaring for the very first time (but certainly not the last) that I was, “never drinking again.”