“It’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt,” as the saying goes. Except in this case there were no physical injuries to speak of — just a crippling load of embarrassment that will rob even the most hardened man among us of his ability to make eye contact with others. The following story is true and I don’t know if my friend will ever be able to live this down. I hope that you are able to distill a nugget or two of wisdom from this harrowing tale.
It all started out with some innocent underage drinking on the porch. It wasn’t all peaches and cream, however. Twelve ounce curls take quite a toll on even the most seasoned intramural star turned alcoholic. We had worked up an appetite, a need to feed. There was only one dining establishment that could satisfy our cravings, and not a day goes by that I don’t wish we could go back and burn that butthole-incinerating, taco-peddling shop to the fucking ground. I’m talking, of course, about Taco Bell.
On the way home we took a small detour and strolled past the local beer distributor. As fate would have it, the local watering hole was running low on cases of Bud Light so we opted for a favorite among our more urban brethren: a 40 oz. of malt liquor, courtesy of Colt 45. Now, it’s important to keep in mind that we all had just consumed enough Doritos Locos Tacos to feed Pablo Escobar for a month, so we were in rough shape. I suggested we pick up some OJ and enjoy the classiest of mixed drinks to ever be consumed on street corners while poorly hidden in brown paper bags from the boys in blue: the brass monkey. But alas, I was shot down and the six of us all decided to play the fabled game, Edward 40 Hands.
It took a while to figure out the logistics of taping all of our hands with no survivors, but with the ol’ college try, it’s amazing what you can achieve when rapidly consuming alcohol is on the line. It quickly became a test of who was blessed with ideal ratio between bladder and prostate size to take home the crown. About 80% of the way through the lot of us were really struggling. Then I heard a rumble like that of a jet engine followed by a quiet, almost inaudible “uh oh.” The look of panic that consumed my friend’s face after the realization of what was about to happen is a look that I see every night after I close my eyes. He started to desperately rip at the duct tape with his teeth, but it was too no avail.
The final nail is his coffin had already been hastily taped down by his closest friends. We were but helpless onlookers as one of our dear friends unleashed a violent, and life altering, stream of diarrhea into his favorite pair of nut huggers. The stench was unimaginable. Some threw up, others ran for the door, but no one was able to forget what came next.
Unbeknownst to us at the time of our harmless game, our last housemate was rounding the corner with not one, not two, but five prospective female acquaintances for a night of socializing and binge drinking. They had made their way into the house just in time to hear our cries of disgust. Naturally, they came downstairs to investigate and we were too slow to stop them. The girls were 2/5 for throwing up and 5/5 for spreading the news of this most unfortunate incident on campus.
It is damn near impossible to live down a story of shitting your pants with 80 oz. of cheap malt liquor taped to your hands. Heed my advice and take caution the next time you attempt something of this sort, but don’t let it stop you from having a good time with the boys..