And we're back. I hope the new year finds you all in good spirits and good health. I also hope that you took full advantage of the long weekend and are now struggling in the throes of yet another Monday morning hangover. (I know it is usually in poor taste to wish a hangover upon anyone, but on the first workday after New Year's it seems appropriate). Now if you're anything like me- and it's likely you are if you're reading this blog- you used New Year's as an excuse to embark on a 5-day booze-soaked odyssey that plumbed the deepest depths of human indecency and debauchery. In other words: a success.
Like any true group of un-apologists, our celebration began on Wednesday night with multiple kegs, clear, well-defined goals, and a determined attitude. Over the succeeding days and nights we rode this bender with all our might, enduring the highs and the lows, right up until the inevitable Sunday crash. Through the process we made some great memories- and forgot most of them just as quickly- and a number of entertaining story lines emerged. Some are hilarious, some macabre, and some are downright strange. Many are typical of any New Year's Week celebration and you may have encountered them in your own journeys: inebriated lightweights throwing up in the bushes and urinating in the planters, often at the same time; late night beer pong tournaments running until 4 or 5 am; high heel-wearing young women taking nasty spills on beer-covered kitchen floors, resulting in sprained wrists and broken elbows; and lets not forget the requisite fistfight between friends-of-friends over a backwards hat. Classic!
But the most entertaining storyline of our long weekend is a bit unique and you may not have encountered it. Then you again, you may have, and for that I commend you. It is an infrequent occurrence that grown adults pee their pants or wet the bed, even when blasted out of their minds. It is even less frequent that this happens two nights in a row. But I personally bore witness to this spectacle less than 72 hours ago. As Rube Baker famously uttered in Major League II, "Women: you can't live with them, and they can't pee standing up." In this particular case, neither of these two young ladies could even manage to make it to a toilet.
Our first subject is Tipsy McStaggers. She is a good friend of mine and we go back a long time, but in this case even I had to cringe at her antics. Tipsy is your classic functioning alcoholic: drinks like a fish 5 nights a week, handles it like a tank, and can get up and go to work at 8 am the next morning. But like most young women, she eventually reaches a tipping point (yes, I hate that phrase too, but it is actually applicable here), where she transitions from fun-loving screaming party girl to a zombie-like lazy-eyed drunk. On New Year's Eve she reached that tipping point and made it most of the way down the back slope. After losing a shoe and falling down multiple times, she and her thousand-yard stare eventually convinced one of the less-drunk party goers to drive her home.
The next morning her roommate, another good friends of ours, came downstairs to find Tipsy's pants and underwear in a sopping wet heap on the floor in front of the television, and what appeared to be a re-creation of the Chesapeake Bay on the seat cushion of a very expensive recliner. Upon being confronted Tipsy confessed to the deed and furthermore admitted to being awake and conscious. According to her, she just "didn't feel like getting up," and that it didn't really matter because "it was my chair." You can imagine our shock (and secret admiration) of her brazenly unapologetic response. In the ensuing discussion later on New Year's Day, the following gem came out:
Me: "You're telling me that as a 22-year-old person, you don't feel the least amount of shame about all this?"
Tipsy: "No, not at all. Plus this isn't nearly as bad as the time when I peed in my closet in front of my dad."
The second loss of female bladder control occurred that night. Although it was far less intentional than Tipsy's, it was no less entertaining. Daisy Sunshine is a nice, friendly Midwestern girl who lives down the street from us. She is literally the girl next door in every sense. On this particular night, she and one of our roommates, Victor, got very friendly. On the night of New Year's Day, most of our usual set was absent, because they were "recovering" from a "hangover," or whatever that means. Not us. There was still keg beer to drink and beer pong to play. After tiring of standing we moved to the living room for some card games. By the early morning hours everyone was thoroughly lubricated, none more so than Daisy. Around 3, she and Victor retired upstairs to his room, and the rest of us soon made our way to bed as well.
The next afternoon, I rolled out of bed just in time for the first bowl games. When I came downstairs Victor was sitting on the couch in the midst of an animated story.
Me: "How was your night? A success?"
Vic: "You want the good news or the bad news first?"
Me: "The good, I suppose."
Vic: "I got laid."
Me: "Nice, 'atta boy. What's the bad news then?"
Vic: "She passed out on top of me afterward, and I woke up about two hours later to her peeing on me."
Me: "Fuck me running! So you gonna invite her back tonight?"
Cue the Dave Chappelle lyrics:
Haters wanna hate,
Lovers wanna love,
I don't even want,
None of the above,
I want to piss on you.
Yes I do, I'll piss on you,
I'll pee on you.
It's your body, your body,
Is a portapotty,
When I pee I kick,
I'm gonna do karate on your body,
I'm want to pee on you,
Drip, drip, drip,
Yes I do I pee on you,
I ssss on you, ssss on you