I think it’s time
for a fantastic drunken story about someone other than me, don’t you? Well, I hope you agree because it’s happening
and I would really like you to read it.
This story takes place a few years ago and starts out
the morning after a party that I had thrown for my birthday (yes, I threw my
own birthday party because there are things wrong with me). A handful of buddies had spent the night
passed out in my apartment, but in the interest of not putting someone’s name
all over the internet with an embarrassing story, I’ll be changing some names
(see if you can guess which ones!). So
upon waking up the next day Knuckles, Double D, Geoff, Bob and myself were all
wandering around my apartment in a hung-over daze. While most of us were keen to drink water and
soda (or basically anything that wasn’t alcohol), Bob was not finished with his
partying from the night before. He went
to my fridge, discovered there was still a good number of Jell-O shots left and
asked how many he could have for $10.
Being the shrewd businessman that I am, I took the $10 and told him to
have at it. This may have been the wrong
decision on my part because within the next hour he had eaten about 20 of them
(but hey, $10!).
It was about this time we
decided that we needed to feed the hangovers we were suffering from. I don’t know if we had explicitly decided
where we were going or if we just picked a direction and started trudging
through the snow, but we ended up at the Mexican restaurant in town. I should mention a couple of things
here. First off, we had gotten about a
foot and a half of snow the night before, so instead of trying to drive through
it we walked the few blocks to the restaurant.
Secondly, it was only about 1 PM at this point. And third, the Jell-O shots were starting to
hit Bob on the walk as he got more and more animated and less coherent. By the time we were seated, the cumulative
effect of the shots was hitting Bob like a brick wall. This was not a deterrent for us.
Once seated, Geoff and
Double D decided it would be hilarious to convince Bob that he should order a
64oz margarita (to be fair, it was pretty hilarious). Then, Bob could not remember if he had
ordered his food or not (he hadn’t), but we told him that he had already eaten
it. The confusion over whether or not he
had actually eaten nearly caused Bob to have an existential crisis, luckily for
him the server came around to take our orders and put to rest his doubts. Food was ordered and Bob clumsily sipped on
his margarita, dumping a good portion of it on the table in the process. We were amused, the restaurant staff not so
much. By the time the food was brought,
about a third of Bob’s margarita was either in his stomach or on the table and
his eyes were no longer open. Almost as
soon as the waitress walked away after setting down our plates, Bob
face-planted into his refried beans. We
turned his head to make sure he could breath and we continued eating (we're all good friends).
Bob’s slumber atop
his pillow of beans didn’t last long. A
few minutes after he passed out, as the rest of us were happily pigging out, he
sat straight upright with a look of terror on his face. “Bob, are you alright?” He furiously shook his head no and started to
shamble his way out of the booth. I
jumped to my feet and grabbed his arm as he moved towards the bathroom doing
what can best be described as an action roll.
On the way to the bathroom our waitress ran up to me with a look of
concern, asking if everything was alright.
I assured her that this entirely normal situation was completely under
control and continued moving through the restaurant with Bob alternating
between walking and swimming.
The bathroom was
(appropriately) where the situation turned into a real mess. Bob barged into the stall only to flop down
into the corner and propped himself up against the wall, where he began to just
make faces at me. This continued for a
few minutes before he groggily declared that he had to pee, stood up, unzipped
his pants and started pissing into the corner next to the toilet. I grabbed his shoulders and tried to pivot
his body towards the toilet, but he just kept turning right past until he was
peeing in the corner on the other side of the toilet. I then decided that it would be in everyone’s
best interest if I just held his shoulders and aimed him towards the toilet
bowl until he was done. With his
bladder empty, he now proceeded to struggle in his endeavor to put away his
dick and zip up his pants. I’m not that
good of a friend. I turned away and let
him struggle with that until he finally accomplished it on his own. Perhaps all of the excitement had worn him
out, because he walked out of the stall, leaned against the bathroom wall and
let gravity take its course as he slid further and further down the wall until
he hit the tile floor and passed out.
On the floor. In a Mexican bathroom.
As I’m standing
there in the bathroom wondering what the hell I’m going to do with this drunken
pile of man, Geoff walks into the bathroom to check on things. There was no containing his laughter at the
sight of Bob passed out on the floor.
But I enlist his help to go back to our table and get all the food boxed
up so we can get the hell out of there.
I also have him send in Double D to help me carry Bob out of there. There is seemingly nothing in the world that
is waking Bob up. We shake him, shout at
him, Double D at one point sits on top of him and bounces (that part was
especially weird) and I try splashing water on his face. None of this works. Eventually, we just each grab an arm and lift
him up, resigned to the fact that we’re just going to have to carry him out of
there. That’s when Bob wakes up, looks
around and asks “Why am I in a bathroom?”
There’s no time to explain this, we drag him out of the bathroom and out
of the restaurant into the snow.
Knuckles and Geoff
joined us outside after grabbing all the food off the table, paying our tabs
and making nice with the appalled restaurant staff. Remember the foot and a half of snow that I
mentioned earlier? It’s really fucking
difficult to drag your barely functioning friend through that much snow. We looked like a deleted scene from Weekend At Bernie’s (how’s that for a
reference?).
This is pretty spot-on.
As we were
dragging Bob back to my apartment through the snow, he suddenly had a moment of
clarity, and the short exchange that happened will forever be burned into my
memory.
Bob: “Wait. My food. I need to
pay for it.”
Knuckles: “It’s fine. I paid for it.”
Bob: “………..Thanks, Obama.”
-Ryan
