My whiskey days (part 2)

I have caught some flak for my writing. People have said that I am vulgar. Well heres that thing, your right I am vulgar. Maybe not in civilized conversation, not with my grandmother, or when I am at work. But just because I don’t say it then, doesn’t mean my brain chemistry changes. I am what I am. I read once that a person is more themselves after two glasses of whiskey then when they are dead sober. Everyone says a drunk mouth speaks a sober mind. Inside of us we all have an animalistic nature that society tries to smother. A genetic code passed down from the earliest generation. A nature that implores us to have sex, dominate the opposing tribe, make our way in the world, become the leader of the herd. A lot of people like to think that we have come far away from the beasts, but we haven’t. We are less civilized then a pod of whales and less dependable then a pack of dogs. So my vulgarity is intentional. I wan’t to rub a raw nerve. The best writing is writing that makes you feel something. Even if its disgust. I get so tired of turning on the TV and hearing people say what they are supposed to say, the PC response. I am not a robot. I am a human being. I am flawed. So are you, don’t kid yourself. The longer we walk around with our noses in the air trying to perpetuate the concept that other people are below us because we don’t agree with their choice then we will continue having wars and a dead locked senate. Im just trying to be honest here.

And now off my soap box and back unto the toilet.

After my first encounter with “the darkness” (part 1) you would think that I might have learned something. But lets be honest here, do we really expect a fifteen year old to learn anything.

As an aside the concept that we put a bunch of kids that age in a little concrete box at nine o’clock in the morning and try to teach them math is downright medieval. Not to mention cruel to the teachers. 90% of the teachers I had in high school were either completely insane or burnt out by the time they hit forty. How alcoholism and suicide are not running rampant in that profession I do not know. As a parent (I assume) dealing with one teenager is painful enough but their yours so you have to love them. As in you are legally obligated, that’s a law for a reason. Teenagers are dicks. But as a teacher you have to deal with over a hundred of them and their someone else’s and they probably hate you. Very not cool job, totally under appreciated. I regress…

I did not learn that alcohol was the devil and that it turned me into a lunatic. I did however learn how to pace myself, kinda. Anyone that has seen me eat knows that pacing myself is taking breaths between bites. Not giving myself a case of the hiccups. Not throwing up my McNuggets into the box because I choked on them. I learned the simple fact that all young people learn, chugging beer is one thing, chugging anything else is stupid and dangerous and should only be done when you are dared. Or when everyone else is doing it.

I will hit you with a short list of other alcohol related mishaps then get to the main story in part 3.

Everclear – Originally the idea was to use it just to clean out the funnel and disinfect any mold that might have grown in it over night. But  my friend John and I were at a point in our lives where everything was a challenge.

John: Your just gonna waste booze like that?

Me: Yea guys thats not right. There are sober kids all over the state that would beat you for a shot of that shit.

Kid holding funnel: Well what else should we do? Were not going to funnel Everclear.

John: Why not?

Me: Yea what are you a bunch of pussies?

To this day if I want any of my friends to do anything, nothing more needs to be said, just call him a pussy. Even a grown man, say fifty, kids in college, ten years left until he retires, wearing loafers and a polo. You call him a pussy and watch him funnel everclear. So we did. Not much maybe a double shot each. But the sun was still up at that point and we had many more hours to go. All I recall from that night was shitting on a fence and using party streamers as toilet paper. Then waking up in a basement to a room full of my friends and two cops standing on the stairs looking like they just walked into a sweat shop. The next day I woke up on that same couch with a pretty girl. Apprently drunk me had game.

Vodka – Vodka is the one alcoholic beverage that doesn’t say much about the person who is drinking it. It is an everyman’s kind booze. From the young girl drinking Gordon’s to the business man sipping Goose, vodka is sophisticate and timeless. Red Bull on the other hand is crack in a can. If your bored one day try to drink one of those big cans of Red Bull as fast as you can. It’s as good as doing a line of cocaine. The up is as up and the low is as low. Whoever invented that shit is probably dead from Red Bull overdose. Together the combination is like jet fuel except it doesn’t kill you when you drink it. Not right away, anyway.

The reason I started drinking vodka red bull and in a way the reason I am writing this right now is because of Tucker Max. Most people will automatically know what I am talking about so there is no need to elaborate but I feel I need to justify myself here. The first time I read “I hope they serve beer in hell” I was probably sixteen. What stuck me was that someone could be smart, funny, and completely disgusting in one book. Frankly I though that was awesome. So that transitions into this story pretty nicely.

New Years eve 2005, I think. I was at Calvin’s house. His parents no longer tolerated us drinking there. They made us go across the street to their neighbors when we got to rowdy. I was drinking vodka red bull by the glass and feeling no pain. Calvin, Jim, and I were playing frisbee in the front yard in an inch of snow wearing shorts. As I was running to catch the disk before I had to dive face first in the snow I felt a strange twinge in my chest. I had to sit down. I though I was going to puke. Things got a little dark. I was concerned that I was having a heart attack. They laughed at me, called me a pussy, and got me back up on my feet. For the next hour I went between well lubricated drunken insanity to sitting on the couch trying to catch my breath. It was honestly probably one of the dumber things I have done. Fearing the worst I eventually switched to beer.

Jack – (round 1) There is no liquor that compares to Jack Daniel’s. Nothing hits you as hard and relentlessly as a bottle of Jack. It’s relatively cheap, redneck strong, and not that much fun to drink. Sitting down with a friend or two and a bottle of Jack is like going to war. It is a war of attrition and that brown liquid black labeled glass bottle might as well be mother Russia in the dead of winter. It’s a wild angry drunk, one hell of a time.

The first time I decided to kill a bottle was again with my friend John. John was crazier than I was, way crazier. But I liked the fact that he just didn’t seem to give a shit. I felt like our ideas both came from and worked to the same direction. From creation to destruction with booze and vagina in-between. There is something respectable in that. He was an asshole through and through and so was I. So we became fast friends and did shit like this. We went to a house party in Seaside armed on with a bottle of JD. It was our intention to kill it through the night. The only problem was I have no patience. We started drinking early, real early like noon. Everyone else was drinking beer, we were taking pulls of Jack. I threw it back like it was water.

There are three paces to drinking. The marathon, one beer after another, punctuated by shots, endlessly. If you do this right you can drink for twenty four hours and maintain a good buzz without going black out. This takes patience, know how and a good tolerance. The sprinter, drink as much as possible until you feel it then maintenance drink for the rest of the night. This is the preferred method for club rat’s and teenage girls. Get shitty but not to shitty that you get raped either financially by a bartender or in a dark ally by a pervert. Then there is Jesus Christ. Drink until you die, then rise from the dead and start over. I was going with option three. I drank so much so fast that within a madder of thirty minutes I went from feeling good, to sweating and yelling, to silently hoping I didn’t vomit, to on my knees in front of the toilet puking my fucking guts up. I never had time to black out. When I finished puking everyone was still drinking and partying. They asked if I was alright. I said yea I felt great. So I continued to drink. The rest of the night I don’t really recall. Apparently I was the life of the party though. Telling jokes, exposing myself, dancing. Normal stuff. Again I was carried home blacked out and woke up feeling fine. Lucky me. Sucks to be everyone else.

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One thought on “My whiskey days (part 2)

  1. “Even a grown man, say fifty, kids in college, ten years left until he retires, wearing loafers and a polo. You call him a pussy and watch him funnel everclear.” Love this!

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