Wednesday, February 22, 2006

The Vomit Comet



I turned 22 on Monday. Due to the fact that I had a metric ton of work to do, I decided to postpone my get-really-drunk-in-the-city plans until later in the week. Instead, I opted for a low-key night at the quaint Bill Murphy's in East Falls, a Collegian staff favorite. "I'll just sit around with some good friends, take in a bit of Olympic ice dancing, drink a few beers, and call it a night," I said to myself. Most inaccurate prediction in the history of alcohol.

Although I enjoy the whiskey once in awhile, I'm far from a liquor dude. This mostly stems from what is now known as the Jagermeister Kristallnacht, an evening this summer that started innocently when I decided to imbibe the better part of a large bottle at Paul's house. After I got all sauced, I thought it a good idea to toss the empty container off his eighth-story balcony. I threw the shit, and it hit the ground. And bounced.
And didn't break (in retrospect, calling it the Kristallnacht doesn't make one bit of sense; so damn catchy, though). This incident served not only as a metaphor for the Reichian potency of Alemania's most infamous death elixir, but also as a valuable learning experience. On the way back to the house, I puked out of the back window of Lou's Corolla. The next morning, I woke up at 7:30 feeling like I just been stomped out by 1,000 Manchester United hooligans. I swore off Jager that night, and haven't had a drop of frat juice since. Uh, until Monday night.

Anyways, I'm just minding my biz at Murphy's, but people kept buying me shots. "It's your birthday!" they said. "Drink that shit Drew!" they insisted. "I'm just trying to watch ice dancing," I pleaded. "You're a douchebag," they told me. So I drank them. About nine or ten times over, on top of multiple pints. I remember Chwastyk handing me a shot of Old Grand-Dad at the bar (thanks for nothing, former Polock friend) and someone else giving me shit called the Redheaded Slut. It was liquid chlamydia on the way down (not that I've ever had/currently have chlamydia), and I immediately realized that something was wrong. "What the fuck was in that?" I asked. "You've never had a Redheaded Slut before?" someone responded. I avoided a number of too-easy jokes regarding several girls I dated in high school and answered no. "It's Jager and something else and something else," my still-unidentified-but-now-blacklisted buddy replied.


It was all over. Moments later, I got in the back seat of my own car, thankful that my straightedge roommate was manning the Civic. He drove. And it sucked. We were about two seconds away from the crib, and I reached for the automatic window button. I puked. Out of my own car. Well, mostly on myself and the upholstery. From then on, I recall stumbling into my living room, shedding vomit-soaked articles of clothing as I waxed and waned like time-lapsed footage of the moon. I was wearing a collared shirt, a hoodie and a jacket over a tee-shirt; the first three landed in a neat (albeit toxic) pile at the bottom of my stairs. My Intercourse, PA tee somehow ended up in the tiny vestibule between my outside and front doors. At 7:30 (on the fucking money), I woke up on my suede slip-covered couch, feeling like I had just been stomped out by 2,000 Manchester United hooligans. My roommate Taylor was sitting at the kitchen table, typing up a Hunter S. Thompson report on his laptop. "Did you have a good time last night?" he asked. I don't exactly recall what I said in reponse, but it was surely a well-mixed cocktail of still-wasted jibberish and misplaced ire towards his sober status.


I only possess a nominal understanding of the scientific process, but I think my experiences can be parlayed into one simple equation. Drew + Jagermeister (wittingly or unwittingly) = becoming faced beyond all recognition/yoafing out of a moving vehicle/ruined friendships/a ghastly laundry day/a hangover that could make Pete Doherty wince with glad-it-ain't-me pain.


Thanks to everyone that came out.

3 comments:

kibby said...

haha... that sucks dude. I will never, EVER drink Jager. Although I have had a red-headed slut before, and i LIKED it! ha. I would have liked to see you all drunk like that, too bad I missed it. But know this; you have a similar night in your near future featuring your dear friends kibby and ryan and perhaps some other assorted assholes who will force you to drink till you puke. Just pick the night, drew.

Trebuchet said...

This has shot to the top 10 percent of my extensive collection of alcohol-related stories. Well-told, Drew. Thank God it happened to someone who could retell it so eloquently (and with blessedly few puke details). It's gonna be a MAJOR year, buddy!

Anonymous said...

Chelsea probably has the best soccer hooligans of all. Check it out! Manchester United fans would instantly die in their presence.Oh and happy birthday!

http://www.thesportjournal.org/1998Journal/Vol1-No1/menaces.asp

-Libby