I don’t know if I’m just still in the holiday spirit (I’m not) or if I’m just using this as a cheap way to post an update (I am), but I think I’ll go ahead and share another story about Thanksgiving from a few years ago. I was actually reminded of this story at a holiday get-together this year and felt it would be a good addition to my growing catalogue of bad decisions that I’ve posted here.
This story takes place several years ago when I was still living with my dad; he lived upstairs in the house and I had the basement to myself. There was a refrigerator in the basement that I generally kept stocked with a lot of soda and beer, and very little of anything else. Well, one particular November my dad asked me to clean out the fridge because we would be having the family over to our place for Thanksgiving and he wanted to make sure we had plenty of fridge space for all the food. I took “clean the fridge” as “drink every beer in the fridge,” promptly called 2 friends over (we’ll call them LP & LG because they have the same name and it would be confusing) and declared it open season on beer. There were 3 partially finished 30-packs (because every time we wanted to drink, instead of checking the fridge we just immediately bought a new one) and an absurd amount of orphaned craft beers from various 6-packs. None of us are sure of exactly how many beers were in that refrigerator, but our best guesses all leave it somewhere between 80 and 100.
The three of us started drinking around 7 pm, extremely confident in our ability to finish every last beer in the fridge. The night consisted of the typical drunken activities: cards, music, video games, high fives and overly deep discussions (all of which were growing increasingly disorganized and difficult). For the most part, we were alternating between the light beers in the 30-packs and the heavier craft beers because we thought that was a good strategy for tackling the situation (there was literally no reasoning behind this). Really though, nothing particularly important happened during most of the night (or if it did, we can’t remember).
About 5 a.m. we were still powering our way through the, now mostly empty, fridge. We heard my dad leave for work and decided that the best thing we could possibly do was go upstairs and start cooking breakfast for our irresponsibly beer-laden stomachs. After making it to the top of the stairs, LG decided he needed a rest and promptly sprawled out on the kitchen floor for a nap. LP and I proceeded to dig through the upstairs refrigerator for every bit of breakfast food we could find and carry with one hand (since our other hands were still holding beers). What we settled on was a carton of eggs, an entire bag of hash browns and a package of bratwurst (because we couldn’t find any bacon or sausage and sometimes you just have to call an audible).
I cooked this feast with exactly as much precision as you would expect from someone who had been drinking for 10 hours. Meanwhile, LG snoozed on the floor and LP ran up and down the stairs fetching beers for the both of us. With breakfast cooked to varying degrees of done-ness (nobody got food poisoning, so success), we woke up LG and the 3 of us sat down at the table to enjoy our meal, which we washed down with the last remaining beers. I distinctly remember that my breakfast beer was a Schlafly Christmas Ale, LP’s was a Schlafly Pumpkin Ale and LG’s was a Jack’s Pumpkin Spice Ale (don’t ask me how the hell I remember this). With full bellies and a questionable sense of accomplishment, we gave a toast in honor of ourselves and clinked our bottles together before finishing the last drops of beer; mission accomplished.
At this, LG stood up from the table, declared “I’ll be right back” and walked out the door to the garage. LP and I watched through the window as LG then exited through the patio, walked across the backyard and disappeared around the side of the house. We hear a door slam followed by the sound of a car starting up and driving off (if there are any impressionable youths reading this, DO NOT DO THIS). After calling LG’s cell phone several times with no answer, we decided that gravity was getting increasingly difficult to overcome and therefore we should just go downstairs, seek out places to pass out and prepare ourselves for what were sure to be the kinds of hangovers that would be written down in the annals of history; legends to be passed down through the generations as cautionary tales to children.
Unfortunately, as we wearily descended the stairs we caught sight of an obstacle that would delay the sweet, alcohol-induced slumber: an unopened Schlafly Raspberry Hefeweizen sitting on my desk. Ordinarily, a bonus beer would be a welcome sight; however we were in absolutely no condition to imbibe another. That didn’t stop us, though. Reasoning to ourselves that we had come so far; that only one beer stood between us glory; that if we didn’t finish this last beer we would be failures, we decided to split this final, warm beer for the sake of our legacy. Drinking this warm, fruity beer was rough but we both took turns gagging it down, too stubborn to let the beer win. We were victorious, but it took a toll on us. I had never in my life seen LP vomit before this, but as soon as the beer was finished he collapsed on the floor and began desperately hugging my trash can, heaving pitifully into it. Once he was done, he looked up at me cheerfully and exclaimed, “I feel so much better. I want to puke all the time.”
We later found out that LG had left to go to work, which seems like the worst thing to do in that situation. Also, it’s worth noting that I’ve never seen LP puke again since that day. My dad also never asked me to clean out the fridge again.