The Night I Broke All My Own Drinking Rules

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The Night I Broke All My Drinking Rules

I am a man who believes in rules. I have rules about what to wear, rules for how I drive, rules for everything I can possibly control. One of the things I try to control as much as possible is my drinking. Freshman through junior year, this wasn’t the case, and as fun as it was, my body didn’t appreciate it. Neither did the folks I would throw up on (still kind of sorry about your purse, Jan). Since I’ll be a productive member of society within the year due to graduation, I decided to make a change. And for a while, I’d been doing awesome.

Which brings us to the other night.

I received a text around 4pm from my best friend who’s currently away on an internship. Let’s call him Lenny.

“I just got in town. Tom wants to watch the Carolina game at the bar.”

Since I was enjoying a nice relaxing Busch Latte on the porch while listening to a fire playlist, I was absolutely up for a trip to the watering hole. We arrived and exchanged pleasantries, Lenny hit on the waitress, and we settled in to watch my Fighting Irish get beaten worse than their eponymous kind would in a 1920s Protestant church. Although I was working with a slight beer buzz, the only malt on special was PBR and that stuff is swill. I decided to change directions. $2 wells were looking promising.

This is where I made my first mistake in what would become a seriously arduous night.

NO LIQUOR, KARL.

Well whiskey is both my muse and my nemesis. Although a great short term means of getting the party started, too much and you’re punching a ticket straight to Hell on Earth. I made the “no liquor” rule after a pretty awful night not long after I turned 21. Tequila is a serious bitch and I decided to stop going back to her. She never loved me anyway. Settling on a whiskey ginger, I found myself putting them down particularly quick. Maybe it was the game, or maybe it was the fact that they were just so damn tasty. Either way, I was sucking down the fruit of the barley like a Scot at Mardi Gras, and it was slowly creeping up on me. This was only the beginning.

EAT SOMETHING, YOU JACKASS.

At this point I was tuning out the game HARD. The pipe dream of two straight ACC championships was gone, as was I, and the copious amount of whiskey in my system had me throwing in an absolute hog of Grizz Straight. As the rest of the group decided to be smart and get something to eat, I was sating my appetite with nicotine. Although some people can handle eating during a bender, I’ve never been able to. I need to eat before or it completely kills my desire to drink. I eventually ordered some hot wings to go as we were leaving, but they were put in a fridge for the breakfast I now find myself unable to eat. Had I consumed them then and there, I probably wouldn’t have made my next mistake.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD NO DRINKS ENDING IN “BOMB,” KARL. WHAT IS THIS, NEW JERSEY?!

As we were set to close out and head to the night’s festivities at the house, I ran into a fellow Irish fan. We talked about the team’s tournament chances, how much we missed Jerian Grant, and just how disappointing that Jaylon Smith knee injury during bowl season was. Feeling an all-around Irish theme developing, I decided to order us some car bombs. Since the bartender absolutely loved me (I’m a great tipper and I try not to stare at their tits), our pour was exceptionally good. We’re talking three-quarters of a glass of Guinness and mostly whiskey in the shot. I put it down hard and fast, the way God intended. It was delicious and didn’t repeat on me. Success. This was the deciding factor in what would end up being my trek into No-Man’s Land.

DON’T DALLY IN OTHER SUBSTANCES AH FUCK IT I GIVE UP YOU’RE A MONSTER, KARL.

Finding ourselves back at the house, another friend of ours decided to spark a doobie. I am by no means a fan of reefer. Other people can do it as much as they want, it just isn’t for me. In a state of liquor-fueled stupidity, I decided to give it a couple puffs. It took me a few minutes but soon I was on the verge of falling out right there. Everyone was having a good time getting prepped for the party, and I was glued to a chair like the floor was lava. In a brief moment of clarity, I realized that I had completely screwed the pooch. I cracked a beer and waited for the inevitable.

As people started showing up, I was aware that I wasn’t going to make it through the night. I did my best to be friendly, but I was in no state of mind to hold a conversation. About half an hour in to what was becoming a serious banger, I did the only thing that seemed logical. I walked out to my car (I let a DD use it. Seriously, don’t fucking drink and drive), hopped in the passenger seat, and took what I thought would be a nice hour power nap. I woke up around 4 a.m. to the smell of piss and a ton of “where the hell did you go?” texts. The temperature had dropped and I had pissed my pants in my own car. I couldn’t even summon enough emotion to be furious at myself, so I snuck inside, found a towel, and took a quick shower. I passed out on a couch and came to around 10 this morning. I had missed one hell of a party that featured a girl fight, some couches getting torched, and the eventual arrival of law enforcement.

My point is, know your body. Some guys can go out and do all the stuff I did and still put down a twelve pack. If you’re that guy, then good for you. If you’re not, then deal with it. Otherwise you’ll find yourself steam cleaning your car with a nasty hangover, then sitting on a couch writing about it so the world can mock you.

Make your own rules and follow them.

Karl Karlson is TFM's self-proclaimed cartoon expert and your best buddy. He resides in the mountains of NC where he wrestles black bears and attempts to grow a beard. Karl gave up liquor following an unfortunate incident involving tequila and a vacuum cleaner, but he isn't above a nice stout on the porch.

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