Most people have one, that “other” person that comes out when they drink. Some people’s drunken alter egos are wild, some are hilarious, and some downright suck. Whatever it is, you’re stuck with it for life…unless you’re a pussy and give up drinking. So,
next time tonight when you drink, and your not so secret true colors show, remember that you are not alone in your bipolar drunken debauchery, for we too, have other personalities. Boys and girls, meet the drunken alter egos of the TFM team.
I have two drunken alter egos, and they’re both all sorts of horrible so having two doesn’t make me special, unfortunately.
The first one is basically the female equivalent of Chuck Norris, minus any tact, stoicism, or ability to kick people above the waist. What does that leave? It leaves punching people in the face. This has happened frequently enough to the same people that they’ve started to hit me back. This is not cool. I quit doing this for a while, but now people have started asking me to punch them in the face (I go to a school full of masochists apparently), so it’s about to make a comeback. I’m not looking forward to the results.
My second is Laquisha, ghetto-giver of horrible relationship advice while in dirty frat bathrooms when girls are crying about something something beer something blacked out “wahhhh!” boys. I typically sound as follows:
“Mmmmm gurllllll, ain’tchu gotcho thong alldaway upyo azz! He ain’t worth yo time honey bunz, he just lookin’ fo dat eezy squeeze on dem tittayz, naw meen? Now don’ be givin’dat boi annyuhdat shit right thurr, he gon hafta WERK fo da bacon honay, an iffhe don’t den he ain’t jack shiiiiit.”
9 times out of 10 no one around me (myself included) has any idea what anything I say means, but what usually happens is everyone nods and then I go and squirt whatever shampoo bottle someone unwittingly left out all over the shower and leave.
From Rush To Rehab
I can be inappropriate when I’m sober; let’s just get that out of the way right now. I have a mouth on me that could make some sailors blush, and while I know that it’s not exactly feminine, it is what it is. But I understand that there is a time and a place for vulgarity, and so for the most part, I’m able to at least somewhat keep my shit on lock when I’m sober, meaning I won’t say ‘cunt’ in front of your mother. Animals didn’t raise me, after all. Besides, I’m a fucking lady.
But that all goes out the window within seconds of my first drink. It doesn’t take being drunk for me to get wildly inappropriate; it just takes the mere presence of alcohol. I check both political correctness and just simple courtesy at the door of the bar and set about a night of playing an offensive game of 20 questions in which there are no winners, only sad, angry losers. You got divorced? I’m going to need to hear all about it. I’ll probably even ask if he ever hit you. You got implants? I’m going touch them without your permission. Your husband is on a “boys weekend,” so you’re here with your sister? I’ll convince you that he’s cheating on you and then tell you it’s a good idea for you to call him — and let me listen in on the conversation. There is no topic that is not on the table for discussion and no subject that is too personal for me to broach. Simply put, I’m a monster.
I’d consider myself a generally unfriendly person sober, but I have my moments where I’ll interact with strangers. For example, I say “thank you” to the barista when she makes my coffee, and I’ll even occasionally entertain an exchange of, “hi” and “how are you” with passerby in the hallway. When I’m drunk, however, I am the most anti-social human being on the planet. The minute I go from buzzed to drunk, I have zero tolerance for anyone outside of my friends circle. I will re-locate my bar stool in order to put my back to the random trying to start a conversation with me, just to prove a point. One time, while waiting for a my friends to get back from the restroom, I actually pulled out my Kindle…in a bar…to avoid furthering my conversation with the idiot guys trying to buy us shots. I become less interested in people the more drunk I get, until I reach the point of blackout, at which point, I do a 180 flip and actually like everyone. When I’m blacked out, I play a fun little game called, “how many pathological lies can I tell to strangers?” I generally make up RIDICULOUS stories about myself. A few weeks ago I told someone my name was Eliza and I grew up in Africa, because my parents made research documentaries about Serengeti wildlife. Luckily, the idiot I was feeding this bullshit too was too wasted to catch the Nickelodeon reference. That was par for the course for me. I like to babble utter bullshit to people purely for my own entertainment, but it usually also leads to the entertainment of others. Once a few people become engrossed in my tales of backpacking through Asia and saving pandas (I would never, because, fuck pandas), I pull the Irish Exit and leave without a trace.
I am everyone’s best friend. I know this may be wildly surprising, considering I’m, well, Recruitment Chair, and therefore usually the Queen B(itch) of the group, but hand me a couple LITs and everything starts to change. If you’re telling jokes, you’ll know they’re hilarious. Haven’t seen you in months? Doesn’t matter. You’ll find me hugging you, dancing with you, and sitting on your lap. If I find you attractive, you’ll certainly know – I’ve told many a “friend” that I’d love to give them a “mouth hug” after one too many shots. We’ll take dozens of photos together which I will immediately Instagram. If you’re unfortunate enough to have missed out on the evening, you’ll wake up the next morning to a multitude of texts proclaiming how much I missed you. And no matter what happens, I. Won’t. Stop. Laughing. If you’re out with me, you’ll have a great time. Almost good enough to forget about the other 5 days a week that I (most likely) talk shit about you behind your back.
The DeVry Guy
I have 2 drunk alter egos; sometimes they coincide, sometimes they make a solo appearance. They have #fun and #cool names, too.
The first one is named “Justin Imbiber.” When I drink, I turn into that guy who plays an instrument to try and impress girls. Justin Imbiber’s go-to is hitting up the nearest piano and jamming out to Bon Iver’s cover of “I Can’t Make You Love Me.” If you’re wondering how well this usually works out for the Bibes, refer to the name of the song.
The second, and funner of the two, is named “Apolo Anton Oh-Yes.” Apolo can’t say no. He just can’t. Pound some more shots at the bar when he’s well past the point of no return? “YEAH BRO LET’S DO IT.” Jump into a recently unfrozen lake in the dead of night? “LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOO PUSSIES!” Hang his boxers and a frying pan that he found on a street corner on the DG anchor and streak down fraternity row back to his fraternity house? “LOOK HOW SMALL MY DICK IS BITCHESSSSSSSS!” Also, in the winter/spring months, Apolo enjoys skating down the icy sidewalks in his Sperry’s while doing exaggerated arm gestures. It’s a TFM.
When I black out hard, I verbally jerk off every single person within talking distance. You’re good at ping pong? I’m going to make sure you feel like the best fucking ping pong player on the planet. Helped me out by jumping my car at one point? You’re the best jumper cable operator of all time.
I once notoriously gave the captain of a boat, on which me and several of my friends were vacationing, a vicious verbal rim job, proclaiming, “You’re the captain, man! Everyone’s life is in your hands! You’re the fucking man! Because you’re the captain! You steer the ship the best you can…”
Seriously, if you need an ego boost, find me when I’m shitfaced and tell me one thing about yourself. I’ll make it the best one thing in the whole damn world.
I’m never, however, a good person, and if you find yourself thinking I’m a good person, you’re either about to buy me stuff, or I’m trying to have sex with you.
Oh, you wanted alter egos?