Bloggers' Block

Admittedly, I'm running on fumes lately. Today is no different.

The following is from my buddy's former blog, revisiting the first time we got drunk in high school. I specify "in high school" because I got drunk once by mistake, by myself, when I drank an entire pitcher of margarita left in the freezer when my parents weren't home. At the time, I didn't really comprehend everything that went into and could possibly come out of consuming alcohol. Probably because I was 9 or 10. I do remember trying to stand up, however, and not being able to. I passed out on the couch and pretended to be sick when my mother came home. She figured it out, however, and I got mine.

"It was a crisp but not unbearably cold New Year's Eve in 1997. DJ Slam wasn't even a twinkle in my eye, as this alter-ego had not yet been invented (that's a story for another time), Romberg had just sprouted his first pube, and I was flirting with the all-time record for beating off. I was a junior at Wheaton-Warrenville South High School, and like many sheltered Wheatonites, I had not yet been exposed to the temptation of the drink. Oh, I'd heard stories, but they were mostly cautionary tales designed to scare me away from what would later become one of my closest relationships. The fellas and I had no plans on that particular New Year's save for the usual Mario Cart tournament / circle jerk we had become accustomed to. Well, as luck would have it, we were out of cookies to bukake, so we had to think of something else to occupy our adolescent minds. As we sat in Romberg’s basement, we decided right then and there to throw caution to the wind and try our luck with drinking. Hell, we had abided by the athletic code long enough and we weren’t going to sit idly by while everyone else got f’ed up and felt girls’ jugs.

There were a couple problems originally with this scenario. Number one, we had no alcohol. Number two, we had no jugs. Being the wicked smart kids we were, we figured out a solution to our alcohol problem pretty quickly. We raided the Romberg’s storage space and gathered together every 20-year old bottle of half drunk booze we could find. Gin, Rum, Whiskey, Vodka – all circa approximately 1974. I now call this combination the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. None of us had any idea how to drink or what to mix or how much to mix or really any of the rules pertaining to alcohol consumption. However, being the enormous fans of West Coast gansta rap that most rich, white, suburban kids are, we remembered an old standby courtesy of Snoop Dogg – Gin and Juice. Fortunately, the Romberg’s had a full carton of Minute Maid Fruit Punch, so we were set with at least one drink. As for the others, I seem to recall making Whiskey sno-cones and O’Connell chugging Whiskey out of the bottle like the Irish drunk he was destined to become (quick sidenote: O'Connell used to hide a bottle of Whiskey under his bed and drink alone at night…I hope this behavior has since stopped).

Well, after some time went by, we decided to make our way into the hot tub. Romberg and I drank our Gin and Juice and waxed philosophical on such topics as what it might feel like if a girl actually touched our penises. I entertained myself by repeatedly slapping myself in the face and laughing about how I couldn’t feel it. Hmm, this doesn’t sound like it’s going anywhere good. This was intermittently interrupted by Coulter rushing outside to let us know how the Mario Cart tourney was coming along. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I know why we didn’t have any tits to feel.

Anyway, this lasted a while longer, and then we decided to call it quits on the hot tub and hit the sack. I tried to be the sober one and made sure everyone slept on their stomach so we didn’t choke on our own vomit and die like Jimi Hendrix. Well, my plan worked to perfection. We were all awoken to find Romberg sitting up from his position on the floor mumbling something unintelligible. We told him to shut the F up and go back to sleep, and then passed back out. The next morning, we realized what really woke us up. The place stank like Satan’s asshole after a Los Tres Super Burrito and Romberg was passed out in last night’s half-digested lasagna. It was caked all over his face, stuck in his hair; I think some of it was even in his ears. Nasty. Fortunately, his parents hadn’t come down yet, and he had time to get the Resolve and clean up the carpet. After that the basement just smelled like Satan’s asshole mixed with Resolve, but it was at least a little better than before.

After about an hour went by, and we had gotten relatively comfortable curled up in the fetal position, Mrs. Romberg decided that we needed to help her put away the Christmas decorations for the year. Well, actually, she decided that Eric needed to help her, but being the prick he is, he decided I needed to help too. I warned him, “Romberg, I can’t move. Don’t make me do this.” But, he wouldn’t let it go. “Come on man, just carry one box. You’ll be fine.” This is what’s known as foreshadowing.

I finally agreed, and carried one tiny box down to the storage space where just hours before we had pilfered the Four Horsemen. I stood in that storage space and felt my face grow hot. I started to sweat, I got dizzy, the room started spinning. This could only mean one thing…

BLAAAHHHHAHHHAHAHHHHAAAAH…Right onto the concrete floor. There was nothing I could do. I had warned him, but he wouldn’t listen. Anyway, I told Romberg about this mishap, and we decided it really wasn’t that bad. It was confined to a small area in the back of the storage space where we could clean it easily later. But, nothing’s ever that easy, is it? As I settled back into the couch to recover, Mrs. Romberg made her way downstairs carrying a rather large box. The box’s size obstructed her view in front of her, but she knew this basement well enough to navigate. She made her way into the storage space to put the large box away, and with her bare feet, stepped right in my vomit.

Romberg blamed it on the dog, Mrs. Romberg yelled at him, and Mr. Romberg laughed at us, seeing right through our bullshit. Eventually, I made my way home, sat down in the shower and pissed all over myself. To this day, I have never been more hungover. I could do nothing but lie in bed all day and beg any god who would listen for mercy. Oh, and still I can’t even smell Minute Maid Fruit Punch."

And my comment, which DJ Slam was kind enough to post as well:

"I think you forgot something.

I believe we began the night at Eric Aister's lame boozeless party and left cause we were fed up with the general lameness and Coca Cola classic. Then it was back to Romberg's. I could be mistaken but I think we almost got girls to come with us.

Maybe I've supressed the truth, though, because my lack of "game" early on in high school is still embarrassing to this day.