Posts Tagged ‘hangover’

A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, there was a cadre of ageless demigods of debauchery… and they were localized in a quasi-remote corner of Pennsyltucky because unleashing them anywhere else would have caused riotous libations on a Roman scale.  We several, we proud remnants of that unforgotten era dust off our war faces from time to time– just because people need to remember why nobody ever gave us all indefinite full rides to our alma mater.


Scrap that.

If Edinboro wanted to alleviate their enrollment issues, they’d make us all tenured professors of toxicology, sarcasm, and general awesomeness.  Their *ahem* myopically landmark-oriented budgeting follies will be left for another day.  You can’t put a name on a reputation.  Unless, of course, you are the fucking reputation.

Dionysus was proud of him that night, for he kicked off the shoes while still asleep--  because he couldn't cross his legs.  True story.

Some of you understand this image, and others do not. If you do not, close the window now and kindly fuck off– because the rest of this article is not for you.

Cortana and I were at Dearborn Hall no more than 15 minutes before I ran into someone from yesterbeers past.  I really can’t remember her name, and no she didn’t remember me from some naked shenanigans.  As it turns out, it was from an errant beer pong running riot from 2010.  That was secondary to the recognition of the shirts I wore.  Firstly, congratulations to the Iota Delta chapter of Delta Zeta for having this year’s queen.  Damned if I have any idea who she is, but fuck it–  I know she can’t roll like the girls who made me proud to wear the shirt.  Now, noticing that I was just getting revved up (probably around 11:30ish on Friday), and having been given a situationally epic offer by one of my sisters… well… the games really began, and my body remembered how to switch on the drunkopilot.

Now, the details are intentionally blank here because I have a job that might frown upon my revelries…  however, I’ll leave it here:  muscle memory is the shit.  I triumphantly acquired John’s, made it back to the dorms, and still had the presence of mind to want to break a ukulele off in some douche’s ass.  Yes, there’s a story in here somewhere, but Cortana tells it better…  It ended with her saying something about, “that motherfucking ukulele” and I wrapped my belt around my fist like I was going to be tough or something.

She shook her head, scoffing something along the lines of, “Are you serious?” and continued to enjoy the bevvy of legendary snackage.  Considering that it’s freaking John’s— and I damn near fell over while trying to be all Johnny Badass– I ceded the point and apparently went to bed.

Believe you me, even though the body remembered how to party like a 23 year old (and did so in classic form), apparently it forgot how to shrug that shit off.  Did I mention that I did a fuzzy recollection of my drunken wanderings and clocked over 11 fucking miles during the weekend?  Welcome to my level, bitches, I full-out Mudder-ed Homecoming.

That, however, wasn’t the high point.  The high point was watching some broad get a fucking DUI on goddamn Ontario St.  Those of you who are unfamiliar for that which is Edinboro will not get the joke– but you have to be ten kinds of retarded, five kinds of drunk, and twenty shades of unlucky to get nailed there.

This wouldn't have saved her.  Dumbass.

All of Edinboro would have been a huge-ass “checkpoint.” All weekend, all I could do was smell bacon– even when knocking back shotskies.

Seriously, how fucking stupid can you be to drive during Edinboro HoCo?   You can’t go five minutes without seeing a different cop car during the daytime— and we lucky bunch got to drink on the porch of my buddy’s place with front row seats.  Oh yeah, we can drink in public, flout open container laws in front of the po-po, but we’re not stupid enough to grab keys…

… unless, of course, it was to pop the trunk bar and do shots– in plain sight– on a “dry campus.”

All this talk of classic awesomeness reminds me of how I can’t wait for OHNO IV:  Title Yet to be Decided.



What do you get when you add copious amounts of alcohol, alumni professionals, hardcore undergrads, and cops that clearly couldn’t give a shit?  You get Edinboro Homecoming, and no amount of words can convey the level of intoxicated shenanigans that occur– every freaking year.   Sure, go ahead, compare it to a larger school’s homecoming, or one held in a large municipality.  When it comes down to brass tacks, we see everyone, and it’s easy to hit all the bars multiple times– in addition to house parties, all while on foot.   You can lose half of your running crew, find another, and then regroup by pure accident within a few hours if you’re a dedicated badass.  Let’s see you do that at WVU or UCLA.  That’s right, back off, you have to experience this to believe it.

Informational crapola aside, let’s see, where do I start?  I know, to properly set the stage, maybe I should go into the fact that I was driving in a freaking rolling bar.  I do not condone drinking and driving, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t park my car somewhere convenient– and serve drinks out of the trunk with complete impunity.  Sometimes I want to have conversations that don’t involve shouting over music.  Remember, this is Homecoming.  Open container laws are a secondary offense only to be tagged on if you’re guilty of doing other extraordinarily dumb shit.  So yeah, one small road trip to pick up my little sister (fraternity wise, not biological), her friend, and my girlfriend later– we ended up at the “country club” where all the oldhead alumni show up.  This is a tradition of mine, for one, because catching up with the silver-haired sultans of smooth is always a damn good idea.  Besides those guys being a great time, it’s also the hub where my running crew can meet up.  It’s a logistical must, and a mixological imperative.

After rounding up the first half of the crew, and touching base with my favorite alums, it was time to get this party rolling in turbo.  I parked behind my buddy’s apartment, in plain sight of the police station.  This should tell you how few damns the 5-0 give about drinking as long as you’re not being a complete assjack.  We had flasks and mixed bottles on us most of the time, and this year was unique.  My undergrad brethren lack a house to party at.  We could either speed-drink at my buddy’s place… or do work at the bar.  This is a crucial point– seeing how there was no daytime (or post last call) base of operations.  My trunk was the place to be, but more on that later.

My girlfriend rapidly came to the realization of why Homecoming is kind of like my un-birthday of choice.  Due to many little factors, some beyond my control, rolling with me is not something done incognito.  I couldn’t go five minutes (quite literally) without running into (and subsequently collecting) another drinking buddy from years past.  It was hilarious, every single time I’d wander to a bar– or stumble out of a bar– I’d either get grabbed, or hear my name being called.  I could describe the feeling, but it’d make me sound like an egomaniac akin to something you’d find on Capitol Hill.  Now, we cue the shenanigans.

My running crew, comprised of friends I’m close to– all the way to friends I haven’t seen in over a decade, ended up at one of the undergrads’ apartment.  He’s in possession of a classic beer pong table that was made about seven years ago.  Of course, I had to play– I’ve had many years of memories on that table.  After losing, thanks to Jill deciding to be a whiny bitch–  I got a phone call from my little.  She didn’t go into detail, but shit had apparently hit the fan to the point that she wouldn’t give me any further info besides that she was upset.  Here, I’m at gross point tanked– so I do the only thing a good big does.  I took care that my girlfriend was with people she knew, then made like Forrest Drunk and ran like all Hell.

Rule #14 of Homecoming, dumb shit always happens.  In this case, it was me assuming the worst, running about six blocks while utterly obliterated, just to find out that they had been locked out of a party.  I was none too pleased.  After the run, the coughing, and the ongoing adrenaline surge, I pretty much arrived sober– and got a bit salty as a result.  So there came the realization that without a standard base of ops (like in prior years), it was time for “bed.”  This meant relocating the vehicle and converting the rolling bar into a rolling hotel room.  Which culminated (the next morning) in two words:  trunk sex.  You can’t get on my level without some DIY kickassery, and a backache from sleeping in places that no mortal should.

"The Breakfast Your Mother Warned You About"

And thus began Day 2, as God ordained, and hath been dutifully carried out for over a decade. Oh shit, I'm getting old.

Every year, we dredge our booze-soaked corpses from wherever we landed to go to Kegs ‘n’ Eggs.  Milling about are silver-generation alumni, down to red-eyed undergrads, and everything in between.  Like at Culbertson’s the night before, this serves as a hub to gather the troops.  Unfortunately, all good plans go to shit, and only the hardcore of my bunch end up bumbling their way down to the “Breakfast of Champions.”  Of course, when you’re asshole-to-elbow with a shit ton of people– waiting for food, beer, or Bloody Mary’s gets old.  Cue the old war cry, “To the bars!!!”

While we were en route to the next destination, hangover still lingering like a grim reminder that I’m no longer in my early twenties, I got the news that my buddy’s boss was a clutch dude– and let him off from working the kitchen at The Empty Keg.  It was better than a Christmas Miracle.  With half of the running crew put back together, we imported the rest (albeit with plenty of logistical stupidity) and met up with the legends from the night before.  At this point, there’s the parade– an altogether forgettable occasion that even the undergrads don’t give a flying damn about after they’ve finished putting together their floats.   Shortly after remembering why I usually opt to party instead of attend the parade, my girlfriend and I slipped away from Edinboro to go shower (among other things).

We returned a little bit later, with the hangover dead and stashed in the trunk.  The running riot began again, and apparently on day two– more alumni come out of the woodwork.  It was a damn good thing that we were back on the booze bandwagon, because every few minutes– there was another familiar face.  At this point, I started to wonder if this is what it feels like to be an icon, a legend, or a celebrity.  I checked my ego with another healthy drought of my flask, and then she walked up.

Since my other letters are that of a Delta Zeta sweetheart, that’s a whole other sect of alumni that I actively seek out.  My generation of DZ’s are the best of the best, and there was even a year that I opted to hang out with them as opposed to my own freaking brothers.  An alumni sister, one of the generation that immediately preceded my own, strolled up to me in my TKE letters– and somehow knew my name, and that I was a little brother.   No, there were no other alumni sisters in The Boro (that I saw, and believe you me, I saw everyone).  She noticed my girlfriend, and without missing a beat– introduced herself, then inexplicably retreated.  According to my better half, she was getting ready to make a pass at me until she noticed that I wasn’t single– and made a remarkably graceful exit.  The mischievous looks I saw, every freaking time I saw her for the rest of the evening, corroborated this one.  There were no death looks from my girlfriend, shit, I had to do some research post-haste to figure out who the Hell she is– and to this day, I really don’t know why she looked familiar, or how she knew me– but not my big sister.   At this point, I wonder how I never realized I was this much of a brofessional when I was an undergrad.

Maybe awesome is like wine, and has to be properly aged to the right potency.

I don't remember this picture being taken.

Distilled awesome results in this kind of happy. In other news, it took almost a full hour to figure out where and when this picture was taken.

For some reason, everyone I know was tossing their cookies at some point during the weekend.  This included while we were relaxing at another Boro tradition–  John’s.  We’re sitting there, drunkenly minding our own business, and then three cops roll into the joint like stormtroopers.  While we speculated from a booth that’s as old as I am, they led some belligerently wasted female example of middle-aged failed life from the place.  The employees of this place are getting their asses handed to them on the busiest business day of their year– and she started giving the counter girl shit.  I don’t blame her for calling the bacon, but what happened next utterly floored my ass.

The broad tossed her cookies outside the front door, right in front of the cops, right on top of where one of my buddies puked not five minutes before.  Not only did the cops clean up the puke, they let her stumble off into the night like nothing even happened– no public intox, nothing.  Considering how many friends of mine have had their lives anally fisted by these Keystone Cops, I was truly astounded.   So here we are, full circle– even the cops don’t care unless you’re driving or fighting.

Homecoming.  Get on our level, and try to keep up.  Otherwise, you’re gonna get left in the dust.


Now that I’ve got  your attention, yes, those were my very words about twenty minutes ago.  Of course, just to be clear, that time is only accurate in reference to when I started writing this.  I am, after all, typing with a buzz and a cast– and due to the former condition, am mocking some schmuck (that I don’t even know) on a friend’s facebook page.  If my ass gets any bigger, or if I end up with acne and my girlfriend leaves me, my transformation into a walking stereotype of failed manhood will be complete.  Oh, all these horrible realizations that have come from surgery– or rather the inordinate amount of time I’ve had to just… think.

So here I sit, nursing a budding headache, and watching Robot Chicken and …  ugh, you know what?  Screw this, Svedka Cherry makes headaches worse.  There’s your FYI for the night, I’ll finish this later.  I need some sleep.

One crappy night’s sleep and half a day later…

I am officially a dumbass.  Rule #1 of headaches, especially of the burgeoning migraine variety:  do not freaking drink more.  They will only get worse, and you will end up with the same headache and a hangover the next morning.  Feel free to point and laugh, because I have been facepalming all morning.

After all the years I’ve spent as a fore-running proponent of the epic lushes against irresponsible alcoholics, you’d think I’d have learned one of the cardinal self-preservation rules.  Apparently I have not.  I should have let my girlfriend put the Svedka away, it would have saved me a case of the FML’s this morning.  Either that or I should have pulled a House, downed two Norco, and not given a flying damn– except I’m saving my remaining Norco for when I start physical therapy in a week and a half.

Yes, I’ve had this cast for over a month now, and finally there’s a light at the end of my gimpified tunnel.  Then again, that’s just the full-arm cast.  I have no idea what the future holds, so I’m being uncharacteristically optimistic.  For all I know, they’re gonna put me in another, smaller cast.

This brings me to something that has been an intriguing footnote to this entire odyssey.  This is the first cast I’ve ever had.  Most people get exotic colors, or have people make like tattoo artists all over their exoskeletons.  My cast is as virgin and vanilla as the day I got it.

The cast, just as "perfect" as the day it was applied...

The cast, just as "perfect" as the day it was applied...

Isn’t this what kids look forward to?  Don’t they look forward to having their friends sign, draw-on, and otherwise deface that which is both healing and handicapping them?  Well, apparently that’s not so vogue when you’re in your early 30’s…  either that, or I’ve progressed farther into becoming a reclusive, obese, basement denizen than I thought.

Everyone, grab your sharpies.  Realize that my two nieces and nephew will probably see what you’ve drawn.  My self-respect is on the line here.  Time to do work.  I will not let my first (and hopefully last) cast ever go into that good night without even a single mark.