Nothing to Report?

Saturday was a night I had been looking forward to for quite some time: my boy Chief’s bachelor party. Booze, breasts, and a varsity squad of buddies: a recipe for the perfect “On the Rocks” post, right? A formula, one might say, for the quintessential hilarious-night-of-drinking story?

Only one problem: Alcohol, when consumed in large quantities, seems to cause memory loss. (Was anyone else aware of this? Wait—was I aware of this? *scratches head*)

There are so many parts of Saturday night that are shrouded in a deep, dense fog in my brain that extracting the good stories is almost impossible. I’m fairly confident, however, that in the coming weeks some of that fog will be cleared with the help of my friends. Chief’s wedding is Friday, and I’m sure there will be several anecdotes tossed back and forth during the day that had previously been rinsed away by shots of tequila. There are more tales out there; the sheer amount of alcohol, beer pong, and characters involved guarantees it.

There are at least two, though, that I can provide you with now:


The Party Crasher

The night began at my boy Finn’s home. His basement is set up as a game room, and it opens out into his driveway in back of the house. Games of asshole and beer pong raged inside, and set up outside on the edge of the driveway were two iced-down kegs and a table—on top of which sat fifteen or so pizzas of various topping combinations. You know, just some light refreshments.

After a few hours had passed by, I noticed a guy near the keg talking with one of my friends. I asked another friend, Bobby, who the stranger was. He said, “I don’t know; I think he just walked in.” Apparently “Seth”—if that was indeed his real name—had been walking down the street when he heard the party going on and decided to join the fun. And this was in a very suburban neighborhood, not in the city where a random person coming into the fray wouldn’t be quite so unusual. None of us knew him, he was rolling solo, and he was hammered. Even though he had just arrived, he was already slurring words. Standing next to Finn and his wife, “Genoa,” I decided someone had to do something about it. “[Genoa], this is your place; kick him out!” She looked at me, then over at her 6’1” 260 lb hubby, and said, “Why the f**k are you asking me to do it?!” (The next day at lunch, when the question was once again put to me, I answered her with, “Because I go to the people that are going to get s**t done—and we all know who wears the pants in your household.” She found it hard to argue with my logic.)

A short while later, the party bus came to take us to Mario’s in the South Side. Haze, the best man, was collecting the $40/person fee from each of us as we boarded. We figured that the party fee would prevent Seth from continuing his interloping. But, though he thought hard about it for a moment, he finally handed over the cash to Haze and climbed onto the bus. By the time we had reached Mario’s, I was beginning to think that we weren’t going to get rid of him. Our party filed past the bouncers, who checked our IDs as we did. When Seth’s turn came, however, he stumbled and fell—right into the bouncer.

If you were wondering if there is a surefire way to be denied entry into a bar, this would be just what you’re looking for. I’m not a religious man, but I’d like to think that, if there is indeed a God, it was his hand that nudged Seth toward his fate.

Thanks for the $40 though, Seth. The shots that your donation bought were terrific.


The Morning-After Victim

Sunday morning, Finn’s house was a broken battlefield, complete with fallen warriors everywhere. At around 10 a.m., six of us were gathered in the TV room, nursing our hangovers with SportsCenter and episodes of “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.” One of our friends, “Butters,” emerged from the living room where he had been sleeping on the couch. Groaning, he shuffled into the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, we began to crack jokes as to his activities inside. Thirty minutes later, we yelled, “You okay in there, buddy?” No response. After about an hour, I finally decided to take a peek into the bathroom. I opened the door, and found him curled up on the bathroom floor (completely-clothed, thankfully). Finding him like this, I did what any good friend would do—I laughed my a** off while snapping pictures with my cameraphone (yes, that’s actually him above).

The flashes and laughter awoke him. He sat up, and then crawled out into the TV room before collapsing on the floor. Then, about fifteen minutes later, he got back up onto his hands and knees, and determinedly crawled back into the bathroom. The retching sounds that emanated from within were brutal. When the rest of us finally left to go to lunch, Butters was back on the living room couch. I have yet to hear anything from him since, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he was still laying there.

War is hell.