Is There an Officer, Problem? Part Two

Please keep in mind that, in the course of these stories, I have never in fact been arrested, or indeed had any contact with members of the OPP, RCMP, FBI, CIA, NRA, NASA, or any other scary acronyms.

And now we come to one of my favourite drunken memories. I'm fairly sure I can remember most of this one. And oh, what a fun night it was.

Oh, and for the record, I'm getting tired of making up new names, and remembering who is who. So, through some clever thought, investigation, research, and outright fabrication, I have discovered / invented the following disclaimer, effective immediately and retroactively:

By partying / drinking / hanging out / sleeping with me, you agree to allow me the use of your name on this blog. There you have it.

So anyway, my friend Matt decided to have a few of the guys over one weekend. This must have been Grade 11. I was still young, still untattooed, but far less naive than on my last alcoholic voyage. I was still pretty stupid though.

So, we arrived at the scheduled rendezvous point (Matt's house). There were five of us in total: Me, Elliot, Luuk, Matt and Gage, who arrived later. He was at the *snicker* Fall Fair--which, for those of you who do not live in a hick-town (I'm assuming I actually have readers from outside of Milton, Ontario. Humour me), the fall fair is like a carnival, but really really shitty. Oh, and for those of you who couldn't guess from his name, Luuk is a foreigner. A Dutch foreigner.

We wanted to start drinking immediately, however we decided that it would be rude to begin without Gage present. That, and he was bringing more booze. So, we stuck what we had in the fridge--a few beers, and some foreign stuff called Oranje that someone brought; I leave it up to you to guess who--and proceeded to play Halo 2.

After I had thoroughly stomped a fuckload of ass, Gage arrived, bringing with him a mickey of Bacardi. I had expected more, but, not to be put off, I did what any gentleman would do: I let Gage drink his Bacardi himself, and swiped the Oranje off the foreigner. He seemed to have a problem with this, but, as I previously stated, he is Dutch, and thus frail, and rather twiglike. His flimsy, birdlike hands could do nothing against the onslaught of my fury.

In short, I told him to fuck off and drink his beer. He listened, because--and I feel the need to drive this point home--he is Dutch, and thus, weak-willed.

And so we drank. And drank. And peed. And drank. This pattern continued unabated until there was a sudden lull, possibly caused by the shortage of the booze supply, but possibly because of our discovery of beef-flavoured dog toothpaste. Matt quickly snatched it up and stuck it in Luuk's face.

"Taste this."

"I dunno man... It doesn't look very tasty." Luuk's voice was tinged with fear. And booze.

"Just DO it, you foreigner!" I interjected, my voice absolutely dripping with righteous fury at the thought of Luuk passing on this challenge. It might have been the booze as well.

Luuk hesitantly took the small tube from Matt, and carefully unscrewed the cap. He squeezed gently, causing a small amount of the shit-brown gel to emerge. We stifled our giggles. He licked it. We groaned and called him gross.

He licked it again. We took the beefpaste from him, and asked what the flying fuck he was doing.

"Luuk, we only told you to do it once."

"I know, but it doesn't taste very bad. It tastes like regular toothpaste."

Somehow, I didn't believe him.

"Luuk, you lying Dutch bastard. That shit is BEEF-FLAVOURED. And it's meant for DOGS. There's no way in Hell you're gonna convince me that it tasted like anything other than smoked horseshit. Or maybe beef."

"Well--"

"Shut up, foreigner."

This continued for a few minutes, until Luuk finally relented, realizing that he was Dutch, and thus, wrong.

With no other potentially gross-tasting items handy, we quickly decided that a new form of entertainment was in order. And thus was born the greatest of Halo 2 matchups.

There was shooting. There was dying. There were occasional piss-breaks. It was Halo 2, and we were drunk.

One of the highlights was the four of us trying to ride on one Banshee--for those of you who aren't Halo-literate, a Banshee is a flying vehicle that can seat one. However, it has small, wing-like protrusions on either side. We managed to sit one person in the pilot's seat, and two on either side, until the last person got jealous and blew them out of the sky with a rocket.

All this videogame-playing was really tiring, especially on the thumbs. Eventually there came the time when we were ready for bed. When Matt left to go to the bathroom, I hopped in his bed. Apparently, he didn't like the idea very much. Immediately upon re-entering the basement, he proceeded to toss fists at my arm. This continued until he was blindsided by my foot. I sort of felt bad afterwards, so I gave Matt his bed back--after thoroughly laughing at his sudden contraction of a case of foot in face--and slept on the floor. Not quite as comfortable, but I was pretty drunk; a bed of spikes would probably have felt like a Beautyrest at that moment.

Just as we were all about to happily drift off into dreamland, we came to a realization: the Dutchman was still talking.

"Luuk, shut the fuck up. I want to sleep. Shut up before I kill you, you foreign bastard." (If you can't guess who said this, go back and read through the story leading up to this point. Preferably while hanging your head in shame)

"I got a lot to say, man--"

"Luuk, shut the fuck up."

"But--"

"Luuk, if you aren't gonna shut the fuck up, go get me the Fudgee-os."

"I don't wanna get--"

"LUUK! FUDGEE-OOOOOOOS!"

"But--"

"FUDGEE-OOOOOOOOOOS!"

"Alright... I'll get you the fudgee-os."

And thus ended another night of drinking. Stay tuned for part three. Which I'm gonna try and remember.

On a side note, I never did get my fucking Fudgee-os. That fucking Dutch bastard!

Is There an Officer, Problem? Part One

Please keep in mind that, in the course of these stories, I have never in fact been arrested, or indeed had any contact with members of the OPP, RCMP, FBI, CIA, NRA, NASA, or any other scary acronyms.

I suppose that, for the post that will begin this multi-part series, I'll do as any self-respecting writer would do, and start at the beginning.

The first time I ever became insanely drunk off my ass must have been way back in Grade 9. Oh how young we were back then. So young, and so naive. And so very, very un-tattooed.
A friend of mine--let's call her Sally--was throwing a party to celebrate the end of exams, which was kickass. I had my fears that it would turn out to be one of those "In at five, out by ten" parties, consisting largely of sitting around in the basement eating and drinking unhealthy food and very unalcoholic beverages, while parents, still very in town, had their way with the more comfortable, spacious first floor. My fears were soon quashed by the promise that, not only were Sally's parents out of town, they were very out of town. Being the naive, un-tattooed child that I was, I got some form of Smirnoff Ice cooler thing when asked what kind of booze I wanted someone to pick up for me.
Shut up. I made up for it later.
Not realizing that, even though they taste as good or better than a normal carbonated beverage, it is not a good idea to drink four coolers as if they are, I proceeded to drink my four-pack in the span of about 4 minutes. This being my first time drinking a large amount, I was still sort of a lightweight and I became rather buzzed. Not quite hammered, but I could safely be considered "Not a very big contender" in any spelling bees that happened to be taking place.

I managed to sit down with a friend of mine--let's call him Ted--who proceeded to offer me some of his whiskey. Not wanting to insult the man, but knowing that drinking pure whiskey would be akin to suicide at this point, I brought the bottle into the kitchen to mix it with some lemonade.
Now, in my defense: the instructions I got about the mix to use were nothing more than vague gestures, involving thumbs and forefingers being spaced certain distances apart, with one being a larger gap, indicating the amount of lemonade to use. However, the person never actually said that. They simply stated: "THIS much" and "THIS much", while holding up their fingers. If you haven't figured it out by now, I poured out about half a glass of whiskey, with probably half a shot of lemonade. It tasted terrible, but I told myself I would be insulting Ted and wasting his booze if I didn't finish it.

Hilarity and laughter at my expense aside, drinking all this brought about a stunning revelation to me, and a message popped up in my head, reading: "When I get really drunk, I can't feel pain! Badass!"
Well, it wasn't the drinking itself that brought it about, but two specific events. The first one occurred when I meandered upstairs, looking for other people to hang out with, having decided that those downstairs were "chumps". I found a bunch of people that I knew sitting around the edge of a kickass bathtub. "I'm getting in on this shit!" I told myself, and might have stated aloud. Not content with sitting on the lip closest to me, I decided I wanted to sit on the one across the tub. It was way better. I tossed one leg into the tub--empty, in case anyone was confused--without incident. Then, as I was lifting my other leg over more quickly than necessary, I allegedly smashed my foot incredibly hard against the side of the tub. More than one fellow tub-sitter asked me questions along the lines of "Holy shit! Didn't that hurt a whole motherfucking lot?" My only answer was to stare blankly at them and say "Huh?"
They then proceeded to inform me about my foot-smashery, which is how I now know about it, and am relating it to you. Jesus, that's confusing. This is like some sort of space-time paradox, isn't it?

Anyway, the second event occurred after I decided that I absolutely had to sober up. ALLEGEDLY, I professed undying love for my friend--let's call her Jennifer--who proceeded to rebuke me on the preposterous grounds that I was a) drunk and b) standing in front of her boyfriend as I said this. I got a little bent out of shape at this, and was told by someone that I needed to get sober to prove my love for Jennifer. This person was clearly a jackass, but being the trusting and oh-so-inebriated soul that I was, I listened. I enlisted a sober-up crew, who found me bread and coffee. I devoured the bread as I do the souls of my enemies, then proceeded to chug the coffee in one gulp. Shocked faces greeted me as I lowered the mug in triumph. It was then explained to me that the coffee I had just quaffed was fresh out of the pot, and thus, scalding. I shrugged all manly-like and told them that I felt nothing.

Needless to say, my sobering up had little to no effect on Jennifer, and frankly I had no recollection of any events occurring after the bathtub incident. It was only until the day after that someone related my exploits that evening, after firmly stating that I was, in fact, a dipshit.

Part Two soon to come.

New posts coming. I promise.

So yea. Apparently I haven't thought about this thing for awhile. I've had other priorities, like quitting my job and stuff. If it's any consolation, I now have Rock Band, and have rocked out profusely. The drunken stories are coming, I promise.

Now that I have no job, I'll have plenty of time.

In between sleeping in and videogames.
And looking for another job.