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 it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.
Not My Proudest Moment: The Night I Shomited
Pleasanton, CA has a street fair every first Wednesday of the month during the summer. If you have never been, it consists of Main Street being shut down for anything other than foot traffic, a random chiropractor booth where your free assessment diagnoses you as The Elephant Man, food trucks, young adults looking to give each other various STD’s and of course, booze. Beer gardens, full sidewalk liquor kiosks and traditional bars and restaurants cater to the insane influx of foot traffic like a mini-French Quarter, employing temporary carnival barkers to shout at the pedestrians strolling by about their drink specials in hopes of luring them, and their wallets, into their respective establishments.
A few years back, I decided to partake. I parked my car a few blocks away and weaved my way through the crowd of scantily clad girls, over-served douche-bags and others, to meet my friends (also scantily clad and douchey). After a brief tour of the kiosks, booths and other temporary structures that sold useless goods and services, we ducked into one of the Mexican Restaurants and made our way to the back patio where all of the cool kids hung out. We lucked out and were able to secure a table for our ever growing social circle. At some point, it swelled to a point where it made sense for us to purchase group drinks, and the decision to drink our weight in margaritas was made.
The pitchers started piling up and while they weren’t particularly strong, they were good. And since the street fair was quickly coming to a close, it was time for us to finish one last pitcher before moseying off to other establishments. As I was pouring my last cup of neon green goodness, my friend handed me a cup of water and told me to “drink this.” Being a good friend, and an even better order taker, I snatch the glass of water from her hands and threw back the plastic chalice of water quickly.
The horror in my friend’s eyes told me I had fucked up.
As it turned out, the glass of water I had just chugged, was in fact, tequila, and my friend’s instructions of “drink this,” was mis-heard by my had actually person as she had actually told me to “take this.” As in hold on to it. The table had purchased extra tequila to “spice up” the relatively tame libations, and I had just taken the entire group’s worth of extra shots, directly to the face. For a brief second, I thought I was going to be okay. The liquid had gone down surprisingly smooth and I wasn’t feeling any ill effects at the moment. Regardless of my seemingly invincible state, no one allowed me to drink another drop. So naturally, I left those buzz kills in search of new drinks, and new friends.
I found neither.
The moment I left the Mexican restaurant, the tequila entered my blood stream. with every step I took, my blood-alcohol content ticked upwards until I was spitting fire at people like a drunken, human Godzilla meandering through Downtown Pleasanton. By the time I the reached the block where my carwas parked, my legs were no longer cooperating with the rest of my body. I felt that continuing my search for further drinks and further friends was probably best to abort, while simultaneously developing a new plan to hastily retreat to my car for a quick 35 hour nap or so. I stumbled to my car, threw my keys on the passenger seat, crawled into the back, and traveled to dream land.
I woke up hours later to a stunning silence and a morbidly dark sky. I was now DEEP into the early morning, a disheveled mess, and still in the merry little town of Pleasanton-fucking-California. I sat there for an extra 30 minutes or so, until I was absolutely sure I was good to drive. Once I was, I made the long, awful trek to my house on the other side of the bay, in Burlingame. In order to get to Burlingame, you have to cross a bridge. About five minutes from crossing said bridge, I realized that I had no money on me. I had no money because it was in my wallet. Which was still in Pleasanton…somewhere. My 45 minute drive home turned into a 90 minute drive home as I drove down to San Jose and up the peninsula to my home.
I parked the car, I ripped off my clothes, and crawled into my bed that was being occupied by my ex-girlfriend who was still living there at the time.
“You smell awful,” she said.
“Fuck you,” I replied (tequila does wonders for my attitude, I should point out).
“Wonderful, Sam. What the fuck did you drink? Everything? It is Wednesday, you genius. Don’t you have to work in the morning?”
“Don’t YOU have to move out of my apartment?” I retorted (again, tequila). “I don’t need this, I am gonna go puke.”
And with that, I rolled my bloated carcass out of the bed on a quest to relieve my stomach contents in my bathroom toilet. Except along the way to the bathroom, I realized that I really had to shit. Bad. So much so that I completely forgot about me needing to vomit. I stomped into the bathroom, ripped my undies down, and plopped my ass down (literally) to do my business. While I was evacuating my bowels, the stench escaped the confines of the toilet and rolled northward towards my nose. The deadly combination of tequila shits and ball fog proved too much for me and I was violently reminded of my body’s desire to hurl.
The problem of course, was that I was glued to the seat due to my aforementioned shitting. Seeing as how that was not ending anytime soon, I was left with no choice but to spew directly on the floor in front of me while shitting at the same time. Anyone who has ever puked knows that it strains your stomach muscles like no other. But what most people don’t know is that those same muscles also control your poo distribution. So you can the imagine the velocity and power that my tequila shits hit the bowl, once aided by the overworked stomach muscles from puking. My insides were headed outside through both ends with no difference in color, consistency or smell. The entire scene was horrific enough to give even the most hardened war veteran, PTSD.
I had shomited, ladies and gentlemen. Shit and vomited at the same time. A feat so rare that a word had to be made up about it.
I finished leaking out of both ends, cleaned myself up and pulled my underwear back on. Immediately I knew something was wrong, my entire crotch was now wet. And just then, I realized what had happened. In my haste to get to the can and take a dump, I pulled my underwear down, but not off. This faux pas led to me creating a sort of, underwear bridge between my legs. More accurately, I had created an underwear net. A net that could catch, say…a crotch full of stomach butter that I had just upchucked for the past twenty minutes.
I shomited into my undies. And then pulled them up and smeared it into my privates. At this point, I was officially the worst human being on the planet. I was also exhausted so I shrugged my shoulders, accidentally stepped in the pile of puke on the ground, and crawled back into the bed.
The ex-girlfriend pushed up her expected move out date to that morning.