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  1.  (9983.41)
    My first drinking story may not be my most outrageous, but it's one of my favorites.

    New Year's Eve, mid-eighties, I'm maybe 7 or 8 years old (I can't remember exactly, as most of this story was re-told to me by my parents) and my folks are throwing a little party with a few of their friends. I'm allowed to stay up as long as I want, and I'm drinking sparkling grape juice. Somewhere around 9 or 10pm, I crash and get tucked into bed.

    The next morning, my parents wake up, and find me in the living room passed out in my own purple vomit.

    Apparently, I had woken up sometime after the party, and everyone had left, and I had gone around finishing everyone's half full glasses of champagne, stumbled around the house, and eventually threw up into the carpet and passed out.

    I was a 8 year old (ish) little rock star that year.

    EDIT: I think my best tales are in the worst roomie/embarrassing stories threads...
    • CommentTimeJul 2nd 2011

    The only defense I have is that I was 16 and foolish! Very, very foolish.
    • CommentTimeJul 2nd 2011
    Most of my drinking stories just involve getting shitfaced on the computer and yelling at people. However, I was a bit more ambulatory early in my career.

    I went to a small liberal arts college, and the summers were dead. Only a few hardy souls stuck it out for the summer, and those of us who did tended to cling to each other for safety. One of these was my Serbian lesbian friend, Nada. We were both spending the summer working at nursing homes, so we'd get together and drink, and as you can imagine, being poor and bored and drunk in a small college town, sexual orientation tended to go out the window once in a while. This however, is not the point of the story.

    Sometime in July, Nada's uncle showed up, freshly on "leave" from the army. I say "leave," because he had more or less absconded from duty. The fellow worked in ordinance disposal, you see, and had recently had a grapefruit-sized hole blown out of his calf by a bad grenade on the training ground. When the government put him in the hospital for it, he waited until he was healed up enough, grabbed a copy of his original X-rays, and took off, knowing that the Army would try to screw him out of his compensation.

    When he showed up, he had a backpack. The contents of the backpack were: 1 spare pair of jeans, two t-shirts, two pairs of underwear and socks, and a lockbox with a loaded 9mm and about $5K in cash. And a bottle of Yukon Jack.

    If you aren't familiar with Yukon Jack, you should know that it is a high-proof "whiskey" primarily used for making "snakebites", a drink which serves mainly to kill the taste of the Yukon Jack with lime juice. Nothing terribly exciting happened, except that Nada's uncle taught us how to get sick on snakebites, and apparently he also had no hesitation at grabbing my drunk ass, dragging me to the toilet, and sticking his fingers down my throat to induce vomiting.

    Never saw the fellow again. I do wonder what happened to him.
  2.  (9983.44)
    Something minor here, but as it was last night I thought I'd share.

    Went to the local for a few. As usual no-one I know was there.
    So I ended up in a heated, long, discussion with the bloke behind the bar as to why it was un-bloody-likely that aliens helped build the pyramids.
    He was the first guy I ever met who actually claims to have seen aliens - or, as he put it "Orange orbs floating across the field from the pub and when I went to film them, they faded away."
    • CommentAuthorOrpheus
    • CommentTimeJul 2nd 2011
    @Finagle Im guessing that was to stop you getting poisoned? Also this side of the pond a Snakebite is half lager/half cider with optional blackcurrent and memory blotting.

    I feel the need to share again, for some reason...

    The Magic Tenner

    Age [Redacted For Legal Reasons], sometime in early summer and i had the house to myself. Ofcourse, i was the guy with the big house so i sent out a few invites and got a few more to turn up. It was commonplace to put on loud music, play silly drinking games and the now lost art of hide and seek in the dark. I may touch on this later, but this night was about drinking games. The party had migrated to the top of the house, my bedroom, and we had broken well into the 'Magic Tenner' also known as cheap ass Rum and two bottles of cider. Drinking games ensued, the dominant one being 'Strip Never Have I Ever' (Read: the 'Never Have I Ever' drinking game). The party winds down and my parents arrive back, and my mum pokes her head in the door to see a handful of fulley clothed friends, me wearing a sombrero in an unconventional manner, and did NOT see the girl covering herself with my old dressing gown. Its been YEARS and my friends STILL find some leverage in just dropping the word sombrero.
  3.  (9983.46)
    Got a couple of good tales, but that statute of limitations hasn't run out yet. Sorry.
  4.  (9983.47)
    If God had meant for us to be silenced by incriminating personal guilt, he wouldn't have invented the third-person-perspective.

    Repeat after me: "Once there was this guy, who..."
  5.  (9983.48)
    Best one I've witnessed:

    Friend of mine in a terrible club that was making a half-hearted attempt to look classy. One of the ways it tried this was by buying matte black toilets. Except it was a half-hearted attempt so at least one of these black toilet bowls had your standard white plastic toilet seat on it. The friend in question was fucked up on lots of booze and a few pills, decided he needed to go for a shit. Mid-defecation, he looked down between his legs and saw only a black void into which his penis was dangling. Momentarily convinced that a bottomless pit or some portal to an evil dimension had opened beneath him he screamed at the top of his voice, lept up and at the door smashing his forehead into the coat hanger on the inside of it. Completely traumatised the freshen-up guy by eventually smashing his way out of the cubicle with his face covered in blood, trousers round his ankles, shit running down his legs, writhing around on the floor howling about how the toilet wanted to eat him.
  6.  (9983.49)
    Drinking lesson, often ignored in the white heat of the moment.

    a) When about to vomit, indeed, when vomiting, applying the a hand over one's mouth is NOT an effective way of containing the vomit. Indeed, it only serves to divert it at higher pressure, sideways.

    b) This lesson is best not learned when running through a crowded train.
      CommentAuthorAlan Tyson
    • CommentTimeJul 3rd 2011
    Me: I'm going for a piss.

    My good friend Misha: Okay. Don't fall in.

    *two minutes pass*

    Me: *still in the bathroom* Misha! I will be needing another screwdriver!

    Misha: Ha!

    *another minute passes* (it was a long piss).

    Me: Hey, new screwdriver. EXCELLENT.

    Misha: No, wait, Alan, don't do that, not all at once-

    Me: *coughing terribly* What the Jesus... what cheapass vodka did you make this with, Misha?

    Misha: ...

    Me: Misha... what did you DO.

    Misha: We ran out of vodka while you were in the bathroom.

    Me: So... wait, what did you use to make my-

    Misha: Skittle-grain.

    Me: ...the fuck is-

    Misha: You take Golden Grain, pour a bag of skittles into it, and let the sugars ferment over the course of about two weeks. It's... toxic. And you just chugged a glass of it.

    Me: Oh. Oh no.
    • CommentTimeJul 3rd 2011
    First a quickie:

    I was helping host a joint CD release party. My buddy Smac, whose official drink of choice was Mountain Dew, was releasing his third or fourth CD. The same publisher was releasing a CD of songs by and about the group I hang with, whose official drink (now deprecated) was Tullamore Dew (a cheap Irish whiskey, for those of you who've not been exposed).

    A joint drink seemed to be required for the evening. Thus was born the Dew Dew. Never was a drink more aptly named.
    • CommentTimeJul 3rd 2011
    Now the long one:

    My second to last semester of college was hell. Incredibly hard, got sick *twice* and had to beg indulgences from the Dean each time. Thank God the second time he'd come down with the same thing and missed two weeks. It make him more sympathetic.

    Anyway, the semester comes to an end and my buddy Chris decided I needed to decompress. We hit a lot of bars and drank a lot. A lot. The last thing I remember was sitting at the bar somewhere and ordering a round of shots, then finding out I was broke. "No prob," says the bartender, "given what you spent tonight, this round's on the house." I remember lifting the glass, but don't remember it reaching my lips.

    The next morning I wake up in my own bed in my own apartment. I'm in my winter pyjamas, and am neither suspiciously clean nor filthy with vomit. On the other hand, I do feel a sudden urge and head for the bathroom. There I find the toilet duct-taped shut and a little sign in my wife's handwriting. Dd I mention we were newly married? and she considered Chris a bit of a bad influence? Maybe it was his randy toast at the wedding. But I digress. I read the sign, which says "Toilet out of order (your fault). Go to condo office and get plunger."

    Winter PJs were a clue. There was about 8 inches of fresh snow on the stoop, and the condo office was a half-mile away. Nobody had plowed yet. Walked the walk. Got plunger, walked back, untaped toilet: best left to your imagination. Cleared the toilet. Used the toilet. Cleared it again. Lather, rinse, repeat. Eventually got some water and aspirins to stay down, decided toilet was healthy, and returned the plunger to the condo office. Still not plowed.

    On the way back,looked at one of the snowy lumps I'd kicked off the stoop. It was my new hat. The last shot was still in it, as were a number of others. All frozen solid. Well, slushy. Decided it was beyond repair and buried it with honors in the dumpster at the end of the street. For good measure, the gloves I'd carried it with went in too.

    I still miss that hat. Did manage to keep both the wife and Chris, tho, so on the whole it's good.
    • CommentAuthorFlabyo
    • CommentTimeJul 4th 2011 edited
    My most extreme drinking days are long since past now, I've developed a good sense of when to stop adding alcohol to my system, but I do have one moment of madness that people like to remind me of.

    It's about 10 years ago, and I'd been out in London with a whole bunch of uni friends. This is before I actually lived down here in the South of England, so I didn't know the place all that well. We'd been drinking in some hidden basement bar for ex-patriot Norwegians (friends girlfriend being one) somewhere near King's Cross, and that included some very strong red ale and some equally strong blue cocktails. Whilst trying to find a cab back to a friends flat at the bottom of the Isle of Dogs, I get seperated from them because I've stopped to deposit most of the cocktails and beer into a bin. I get out my mobile thinking to just ring them and find out how to get back to them, and it's got no charge.

    Now, sensible logic here would've been to use my own money to get my own cab to their place. But instead I decided to walk back to their place. From somewhere near Trafalgar Square. My wonderful tactic at first being to find the river and then follow that all the way. Which is basically impossible as the public footpath is actually on the south bank. Somewhere around Tower Bridge I realise that this probably isn't going to work.

    The tactic then evolved into something even dimmer than that when I realised that this is the Saturday evening before the London marathon, and they're laying out the course at this point. Knowing that it goes past their flat, I decide I'll just follow the route of the course back to their place. So off I go, walking the bulk of the marathon route in the early hours of Sunday morning hoping that I'll recognise their place when I get near it, and getting an awful lot of odd looks from the poor bastards putting up all the crowd fencing. You look at the map of that course and you'll see it crosses over itself in a few places, which added hours to the walk...

    5am I roll in. They're on the verge of calling the police and reporting me missing. (and the reason I can remember this is I'm one of those poor bastards cursed with perfect recall of the things they do whilst drunk)
    • CommentTimeJul 5th 2011
    Yesterday was the whole Independence Day thing, where we celebrate being American by gorging ourselves on BBQ, smoking like a chimney and running around drunk while setting off fireworks.

    I did my country proud and did ALL of these things.

    We covered one backyard, 1 mile of Bushwick that had fireworks launching on every block that we had to dodge (people were seriously shooting them at cars & buildings), 2 rooftops and ended the night at a steampunk-blues bar. Also got a lovely war wound from launching myself chin first onto the rooftop structure we climbed to see the fireworks better going off all over the entirety of Brooklyn & Queens. I was like a most ungraceful walrus.
    Other casualties were breaking the strap to my dress when I got into bed somehow and that my knee looks like it's from Akira due to the 10000 mosquito bites I obtained in my friend's backyard that I swell horribly from.
    • CommentTimeJul 7th 2011
    I'm reading these at work--thank JHVH-1 both bosses are out--reading @mybrainhurts's story I had to fake a coughing fit.

    Not much in the way of booze stories. Once I tried to invent a colorful drink á là Mexican Flag, Tequila Sunrise, etc. It was cheap absinthe, Blue Curaçao and Grenadine, and I figured their respective alcoholic contents would make them separate into green, blue and red; i.e., a video test pattern. It looked and tasted like a television set tuned to a dead channel.
    • CommentTimeJul 7th 2011
    I dub that drink The Chatsubo.
      CommentAuthorAlan Tyson
    • CommentTimeJul 7th 2011
    • CommentTimeJul 7th 2011
    One incredibly pissed day and night ended with friends in a nightclub. I'd was holding a glowstick between my teeth to maximize limb freedom (for Bez-grade flaildancing) when several of my drinks decided to abandon ship. I hadn't noticed that one of them was the glowstick fluid, having bitten right through the thing, so a sober(er) friend gets the shock of his life when I slam full-speed into the bathroom sinks to luminously vomit all over them. It was like the Exorcist got pissed.
    • CommentTimeJul 8th 2011
    I believe completely that Sangamon Taylor's Law Applies to drinks as well.

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