As LiLu always says:
***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!
In this great tradition, I present you with a story you probably never wanted to hear. If you really need to continue to have a good impression of me, are related to me in any way, or are easily skeeved out I suggest you go else where now...like right now...inmediatamente!***
I thought about regaling y’all with another story about sick, but I figured I’d better switch it up lest it be thought that that is all I do. The trick is finding a story that I didn’t feel bad about telling for fear of airing my friends’ dirty laundry as well as my own. Because generally, I’m not terrible cool with that.
This one, however, it has quite a few delightful TMI moments. So I bucked up and decided that it needed to be told.
The scene is a kitchen table, covered in a twelve pack and a half of beer bottles, a few, currently empty but well used shot glasses and what used to be a circle of face down playing cards. Four of us are seated at the table and have clearly been playing Kings (which is the greatest drinking game under the sun as it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be world without end, amen) for several hours.
I have just drawn the make a rule card. Now, earlier in the night, I and one other guy at the table had made a deal to attempt to get our 2 friends hammered. This wouldn’t really be terribly difficult and we had been succeeding fairly well. There is just one more nail that needs to go in this and it’s done.
“Make a rule, eh? Let’s pull out an old favorite. Every time you get up from your seat you do half a shot.”
Three important notes: 1) It is late in the evening so we have all already broken the seal, bathroom visits have become inevitable. 2) All the drinks left on the table are fairly empty and the fridge is out of reach from the table, refills are imminent. 3) The only non-beer left in the house is tequila.
We continue playing for a little while and everything is going okay, at one point we all get up, do our penance, hang out outside for a little while to take a break, but then we realize it is time to put this game to rest. Except for one thing, that last shot that we all took is not sitting very well with our two target friends.
No worries they say they are okay and we all head to our respective sleeping spots…my co-conspirator and I on the couch, our slightly ill friends to crash in the bedrooms upstairs.
A little while goes by and, thinking that our poor friends are asleep, the two of us on the couch get to doing what is normally done when you leave two alcohol enabled, frisky young folks together on a couch.
Until we hear something. Definite motion from upstairs and it’s moving stairs-wards. We both immediately jumped up and did the only thing that made any sense to either of us... ran half-nekkid to the bathroom and locked the door.
The mover came down the stairs, went into the kitchen, got some water and then returned upstairs. Now we may have been dumb (and drunk) but we are not stupid, we decided that the best idea would be to continue this bumping of uglies in the locked bathroom. (At this point most folks probably would have abandoned the endeavor all together, but we were determined and frankly that didn’t seem like an option.)
This went along just fine and, since door locks are a glorious thing and shame was not currently in either of our vocabularies, we weren’t terribly worried when we heard another motion towards the stairs. Or descending the stairs. Or walking toward the bathroom.
The rattling of the bathroom door was a little distracting…but not much.
Apparently, the last shot of tequila finally caught up with one of our friends and wanted out in a bad way. And it got out…off the back deck because there is no way in hell that door was getting opened.
…there is probably a lesson here, but all I can come up with is “You don’t really christen an apartment, until you puke out the back of it because your friends are boning in your bathroom.”