In many of his stories and poems, Hank always mixed his booze with water. I never liked that combination. To me, the water always flatened the alcohol. I really enjoy Cutty Sark or J&B mixed with seltzer water. It's a nice way to mix it up, and the bubbles stay in the drink. What do you think?
Bukowski the Bartender / your worst drunk (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter Pop Farnsworth
- Start date
Father Luke
Founding member
I drank Jack Daniels out of an enema bag once.
I need to mix water into my ketel one martinis, or I'll be a raving lunatic by 9 PM. It does flatten it, as you say, Pop. But what I really dislike is that the olive juice renders sodium chloride wisps in pure vodka, but the watering down induces solubility, so my dirty martini isn't so fuckin' dirty. God, these things take a toll on you, don't you know?
number6horse
okyoutwopixiesoutyougo
I drained the innocence of my ex-fiancee into an enema bag and then used it in a porn film. Or so my ex would have you believe, so don't listen to her.
Otherwise, fresh fruit juice or seltzer usually makes life good and the drinks even better...
CarversDog
RIP
I once mixed a pina colada in a penis pump.
ROC
It is what it is
Oh, this is best thread ever.
I'm giggling like a 2 year old!
I don't fuck with recipes.
No water, no nothing.
I once drank nine Martinis in around one hour.
There was no effect whatsoever.
The other people at the party thought I was a god.
Then I stood up, took three steps and it all hit at once.
Not pretty.
I'm giggling like a 2 year old!
I don't fuck with recipes.
No water, no nothing.
I once drank nine Martinis in around one hour.
There was no effect whatsoever.
The other people at the party thought I was a god.
Then I stood up, took three steps and it all hit at once.
Not pretty.
Gerard K H Love
Appreciate your friends
Scotch should not be mixed with anything sweet. That leaves plain soda water or ice. The carbonation is said to get the alcohol into your system quicker.
How you drink it is up to you.
mjp
Founding member
That reminds me of an incident when I was 18 or 19 years old and my "friend" put a full tumbler of Jack Daniels down in front of me (about 12 ounces worth) and dared me to drink it. I did, without hesitation, in one beautiful, fluid motion. Because I was punk like that, you know.
Like you, I was also fine for some time. Then I left the apartment, got onto a city bus (the first one I saw), and that's where my memory of that special day ends...
chronic
old and in the way
Ahh reckless youth. When I was probably around the same age (18-ish) I drank a quart of Vodka in about an hours time. Just put it in a blender with ice. Tasted like ice water. I have no memory of the mile-long walk home, but I woke up the next morning with bruises, scrapes and cuts all over my arms and hands, a jelly donut underneath me flattened and stuck to the sheets, and the worst hangover of my life (it lasted two days).
Similar story, except it was my first experience with tequila. Goddamn. I too was 18-ish, so it couldn't have been more than a year ago. I don't remember what happened after walking out the door, but I woke up in a ditch with two little ghetto kids on bicycles poking at me. The hangover was like a migraine, wouldn't go away. And apparently I had a cop looking for me in that neighborhood the night before. Ah, if only I could remember!
Best weekend of my life.
Personally, I don't dampen the drink. Best right outta the bottle, or in a glass If I'm feeling classy.
Best weekend of my life.
Personally, I don't dampen the drink. Best right outta the bottle, or in a glass If I'm feeling classy.
Father Luke
Founding member
Bwahaha!
Okay. . .
I'd never seen wine in a box before.
Hmmm. Maybe I'd better pick up two. . .
The next thing I remember I'm
laying face down on a Church lawn
with dog crap in my hair, snails crawling
over my face, and dead leaves stuck on my eyes.
Shall I confess that this is happening on a Sunday morning . . . ?
Okay. . .
I'd never seen wine in a box before.
Hmmm. Maybe I'd better pick up two. . .
The next thing I remember I'm
laying face down on a Church lawn
with dog crap in my hair, snails crawling
over my face, and dead leaves stuck on my eyes.
Shall I confess that this is happening on a Sunday morning . . . ?
One of the best times to drink! Nothing like waking up face down in the morning earth. Did the sunday morning crowd spectate? :D
I've never had wine in a box, but it would probably remind me of having juice in a box as a wee one, and it would be gone in a flash. Devilish, and I'm curious.
I've never had wine in a box, but it would probably remind me of having juice in a box as a wee one, and it would be gone in a flash. Devilish, and I'm curious.
Johannes
Founding member
When I was a teenager there was a party every six months or so way way in the backcountry which was famous for a very special drink including proceedings:
It was a tall glass in front of you, you had to pull it down straight and then, as quickly as possible, put on a crash helmet while in the back of you somebody was waiting with a baseball bat to give you one powerful hit on the head.
I don't remember what this drink contained, nor it's name, but your body really didn't want it. Several innocent bystanders got harmed every time.
It was a tall glass in front of you, you had to pull it down straight and then, as quickly as possible, put on a crash helmet while in the back of you somebody was waiting with a baseball bat to give you one powerful hit on the head.
I don't remember what this drink contained, nor it's name, but your body really didn't want it. Several innocent bystanders got harmed every time.
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I was in Las Vegas recently. I spent a few hours drinking at O'Shea's then we went to a bar on the strip. I orderd one of those 2 foot tall margaritas. I drank it down in 10 minutes, and I felt fine. As soon as we left the bar, all the lights and sounds hit me. I threw up three times on the sidewalk. I wanted to fight the guy who laughed at me. They should outlaw those goddamn drinks.
mjp
Founding member
Dude.
HarryC13
RIP
God, this is an entertaining thread! If I told you all my drinking stories you'd all think I was a total alcoholic, which of course can't be true because I don't go to meetings. I do remember watching the Pittsburgh Steelers annihilate the Baltimore Colts back in the 1976 football playoffs with my friend Roger Fisher. I drank an incredible number of white Russians and felt fine until I tried to stand up. If not for Roger, I would never have made it out of the bar.
Also, probably around that time or a bit later, I was out drinking with friends one winter evening. When I came home to my trailer, I decided I was hungry and got out some English muffins, some pizza sauce, cheese and pepperoni and began making myself some little pizzas. For some reason known only to God and my drunken mind, I took off all my clothes before doing this. So I turn on the oven of my gas stove and I'm making the pizzas, and some moments into this it dawns on me that the oven is not heating up. I had forgotten that. while I was lit, my pilot light was not ... I had to relight it every time I lit the oven. So, in what has to be one of the great dumbass moves of all time, I opened up the oven, looked in, and STRUCK A MATCH to light the pilot light ...
KERBOOM!! Obviously, I'm still alive to tell about this, but I have yet to see anything else in the world quite like the huge fireball that blew me back against the wall of my trailer. I lay there stunned for a minute. How many minutes of pent-up gas were in that oven I'll never know. And remember, I was naked ... the trailer smelled of burning hair and propane and there was a cloud of smoke in the air. Slowly, I got up to inspect myself and turn off the friggin' oven. The fireball did a random job of blowing hair off various parts of my body. My left leg and right arm were fairly bare. Staggering to the mirror, I saw that the fire had blown off the right half of my mustache and singed my hair on that side a bit. It wasn't until the next day that I realized that my eyelashes had also been pretty much blown away. (About three or four weeks to grow back, in case you're wondering.)
Of course, my appetite had completely left me. I shaved off what was left of my mustache, put some salve on my burned arm and went to bed. Still shaking but feeling like a very lucky man.
God, it just occurred to me that this sounds like something that would happen to Bukowski ...
Also, probably around that time or a bit later, I was out drinking with friends one winter evening. When I came home to my trailer, I decided I was hungry and got out some English muffins, some pizza sauce, cheese and pepperoni and began making myself some little pizzas. For some reason known only to God and my drunken mind, I took off all my clothes before doing this. So I turn on the oven of my gas stove and I'm making the pizzas, and some moments into this it dawns on me that the oven is not heating up. I had forgotten that. while I was lit, my pilot light was not ... I had to relight it every time I lit the oven. So, in what has to be one of the great dumbass moves of all time, I opened up the oven, looked in, and STRUCK A MATCH to light the pilot light ...
KERBOOM!! Obviously, I'm still alive to tell about this, but I have yet to see anything else in the world quite like the huge fireball that blew me back against the wall of my trailer. I lay there stunned for a minute. How many minutes of pent-up gas were in that oven I'll never know. And remember, I was naked ... the trailer smelled of burning hair and propane and there was a cloud of smoke in the air. Slowly, I got up to inspect myself and turn off the friggin' oven. The fireball did a random job of blowing hair off various parts of my body. My left leg and right arm were fairly bare. Staggering to the mirror, I saw that the fire had blown off the right half of my mustache and singed my hair on that side a bit. It wasn't until the next day that I realized that my eyelashes had also been pretty much blown away. (About three or four weeks to grow back, in case you're wondering.)
Of course, my appetite had completely left me. I shaved off what was left of my mustache, put some salve on my burned arm and went to bed. Still shaking but feeling like a very lucky man.
God, it just occurred to me that this sounds like something that would happen to Bukowski ...
Gerard K H Love
Appreciate your friends
You're right, this is a funny thread. There's something that happens to you when you live in a trailer. I don't think Bukowski ever lived in a trailer.
Good story HarryC13 it's the funniest so far. :D
My favourite bar is a local blues club named Bearley's. A real blues bar, live music 5nights a week. Asshole quotient is low, bar staff is excellent. Drinks are well priced. People come here to listen to good music and drink.
No this isn't a restuarant review, I'm getting to the point, just setting the mood. Okay? Okay.
I always seem to have a great time there, even though I don't go as much as I once did. Family, getting old, don't like crowds, $$$ goes elsewhere.
But the night I'm going to talk about started across the street from Bearley's, at the Granite Brewery. Now called the Henry House, once called Ginger's. Famous place for beer lovers. It is Halifax's oldest brewpub. Before brewpub became lexiconical, mid '70s it opened. They have a beer called Peculiar. Best beer ever. At least it was before they changed owners. Now it just tastes skunky. I don't go there anymore.
Anyway, this night started with dinner at the Granite. Just dinner, see? But, really, we all know one pint tastes like 10 and before I know it I'm one eyed drunk and it's closing time. Midnight.
Midnight? It's early! Now where do we go? I need drink, dammit! And music. Hell yes, some good music! Blues! I got the no drink blues!
You get the picture.
So, across the street to Bearley's . Guy at the door says Hello. We know each other by sight. Waves the cover charge.
I go to the bar, sit down, put my messenger bag thingy across the back of my chair. Order a bewer and rye. There's a cigarrette pack beside me, not mine, but I reach in and light up anyway (this is back when you could smoke in bars here).
Here's where I know things are turning south, warning bells ringing like a Quasimodo on speed. See, I don't smoke.
But tonight I smoke. Sure I smoke. Smoke like Bogart. Smoke rings, blowing smoke out my nose. Jesus, I'm a natural! Why didn't I start this earlier?
So things are copacetic for a spell, good music, the smoking seems to have sobered me a bit. And the person I'm takingthe cigs from doesn't seem to care. So I buy them a beer. I'm big like that. I can't remember if they were male or female, but really it doesn't matter. At this point they are just a big talking cigarrette machine.
Piss time. Up and into the can. Didn't get any on me. Good, good. Back to my seat. The cigarretes are gone, but that's fine. Smoking is bad for you. Then I notice my messenger bag thingy is gone too. Well, I call it a messenger bag, my friends call it a purse. So, my purse is missing. I always carry books, notebooks, sketchpad, cd player, cds with me. Because I'm a ageing hipster pomo mofo doofus, that's why.
I'm ticked. Things don't get stolen in Bearley's. Seriously. All walks of life come into that bar, but it's respected. I'm getting more ticked by the second. But instead of mentioning it to the bartender, the cute one that always wears pigtails like some Catholic schoolgirl fantasy, I wander the bar looking for it. Stumble the bar looking for it. No luck. I'm getting frantic. And in my drunken (DRUNKEN!!!!!) state, I pick up an item that's sitting on a chair. In my mind, I'm working out that I'm going to hold this item for ransom until somebody gives my shit back!
It's a motorcycle helmet.
Not one of those full head ones, one of those turtle shell jobs with the chin strap.
Did I mention bikers also love Bearley's?
Off I go, wandering the floor, holding the helmet in front of me like a gladiator. I make it 3 full laps around the bar before I hear a woman say "Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I turn and she's calling over a guy in leather chaps. It's a good look, he can pull it off. So I try to explain, the best I can, my intentions and feelings and emotions. I can't speak that well, slurs and thick tongue and all. But they won't have any part of it. All they say is "Yeah, but we don't have your fucking bag, asshole."
I will concede that I was displaying asshole behaviour at this point. But I'm normally a quiet gentle drunk. I really am.
Finally, they just take the helmet out of my hands and walk away. I go back to my seat. And my purse.
Funny thing, apparently, when I came back from my bathroom trip, I sat in a different chair. Heh.
I order another round, smoke another cigarrette, nurse until closing time. Wander outside and look at the row of beautiful Harley's, Triumphs. And a group of bikers staring at me.
"That's the guy."
Great. Do I turn and hightail? No. I stagger up to them and proudly show them my purse. Big smile, tell them the story.
"Just go home", they say.
"Good idea," I say. Turn and leave. Wrong way. Turn around and pass by the bikers. "I'm this way."
I was with friends at one point, but between the Granite and Bearley's we
got separated. I go to the closest friends house. No one home. So I sit on the porch.
That's all I remember. Had a walking black out. Because apparently, the friends got home, woke me up and we all went in and had a beer. I told them my story and noticed one of my friends knees was bleeding. He had fallen taking a shortcut. I cleaned the cut and bandeged it. That's what they tell me.
But yes, I did deserve to having the living shit kicked out of me that night, I just got lucky.
No this isn't a restuarant review, I'm getting to the point, just setting the mood. Okay? Okay.
I always seem to have a great time there, even though I don't go as much as I once did. Family, getting old, don't like crowds, $$$ goes elsewhere.
But the night I'm going to talk about started across the street from Bearley's, at the Granite Brewery. Now called the Henry House, once called Ginger's. Famous place for beer lovers. It is Halifax's oldest brewpub. Before brewpub became lexiconical, mid '70s it opened. They have a beer called Peculiar. Best beer ever. At least it was before they changed owners. Now it just tastes skunky. I don't go there anymore.
Anyway, this night started with dinner at the Granite. Just dinner, see? But, really, we all know one pint tastes like 10 and before I know it I'm one eyed drunk and it's closing time. Midnight.
Midnight? It's early! Now where do we go? I need drink, dammit! And music. Hell yes, some good music! Blues! I got the no drink blues!
You get the picture.
So, across the street to Bearley's . Guy at the door says Hello. We know each other by sight. Waves the cover charge.
I go to the bar, sit down, put my messenger bag thingy across the back of my chair. Order a bewer and rye. There's a cigarrette pack beside me, not mine, but I reach in and light up anyway (this is back when you could smoke in bars here).
Here's where I know things are turning south, warning bells ringing like a Quasimodo on speed. See, I don't smoke.
But tonight I smoke. Sure I smoke. Smoke like Bogart. Smoke rings, blowing smoke out my nose. Jesus, I'm a natural! Why didn't I start this earlier?
So things are copacetic for a spell, good music, the smoking seems to have sobered me a bit. And the person I'm takingthe cigs from doesn't seem to care. So I buy them a beer. I'm big like that. I can't remember if they were male or female, but really it doesn't matter. At this point they are just a big talking cigarrette machine.
Piss time. Up and into the can. Didn't get any on me. Good, good. Back to my seat. The cigarretes are gone, but that's fine. Smoking is bad for you. Then I notice my messenger bag thingy is gone too. Well, I call it a messenger bag, my friends call it a purse. So, my purse is missing. I always carry books, notebooks, sketchpad, cd player, cds with me. Because I'm a ageing hipster pomo mofo doofus, that's why.
I'm ticked. Things don't get stolen in Bearley's. Seriously. All walks of life come into that bar, but it's respected. I'm getting more ticked by the second. But instead of mentioning it to the bartender, the cute one that always wears pigtails like some Catholic schoolgirl fantasy, I wander the bar looking for it. Stumble the bar looking for it. No luck. I'm getting frantic. And in my drunken (DRUNKEN!!!!!) state, I pick up an item that's sitting on a chair. In my mind, I'm working out that I'm going to hold this item for ransom until somebody gives my shit back!
It's a motorcycle helmet.
Not one of those full head ones, one of those turtle shell jobs with the chin strap.
Did I mention bikers also love Bearley's?
Off I go, wandering the floor, holding the helmet in front of me like a gladiator. I make it 3 full laps around the bar before I hear a woman say "Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I turn and she's calling over a guy in leather chaps. It's a good look, he can pull it off. So I try to explain, the best I can, my intentions and feelings and emotions. I can't speak that well, slurs and thick tongue and all. But they won't have any part of it. All they say is "Yeah, but we don't have your fucking bag, asshole."
I will concede that I was displaying asshole behaviour at this point. But I'm normally a quiet gentle drunk. I really am.
Finally, they just take the helmet out of my hands and walk away. I go back to my seat. And my purse.
Funny thing, apparently, when I came back from my bathroom trip, I sat in a different chair. Heh.
I order another round, smoke another cigarrette, nurse until closing time. Wander outside and look at the row of beautiful Harley's, Triumphs. And a group of bikers staring at me.
"That's the guy."
Great. Do I turn and hightail? No. I stagger up to them and proudly show them my purse. Big smile, tell them the story.
"Just go home", they say.
"Good idea," I say. Turn and leave. Wrong way. Turn around and pass by the bikers. "I'm this way."
I was with friends at one point, but between the Granite and Bearley's we
got separated. I go to the closest friends house. No one home. So I sit on the porch.
That's all I remember. Had a walking black out. Because apparently, the friends got home, woke me up and we all went in and had a beer. I told them my story and noticed one of my friends knees was bleeding. He had fallen taking a shortcut. I cleaned the cut and bandeged it. That's what they tell me.
But yes, I did deserve to having the living shit kicked out of me that night, I just got lucky.
Gerard K H Love
Appreciate your friends
I'm glad someone has their priorities straight. I dare you to tell her to get all the hairs.
HarryC13
RIP
To hell with the drinking stories, let's hear more about that blonde! (BTW, Hooch, I'm glad you didn't get beat up and lose your bag in the process ...)
Harry, I hope you don't cook bacon naked.
I'll play.
Between the summers of '92 & '93, I worked in a shit bar in Snellville Georgia. Cooked food, odered pitchers of beer to be brought back to the kitchen because we needed to make more 'beer batter' for the onion rings, did plenty of blow and smoked the dugout under the big stove sucker vents. Well, one night, we'll call her Niki (because I don't remember her name anymore), who had just gotten out of the Navy came in. I get off work and sit by her, order a drink. Niki was a big blonde. Big, as in 6 foot 3 inches and built like a fuckin' tank. Tough chick. Well, we hit it off and keep on drinkin' and she says, 'let's go'. I followed. We got in her car with a case of beer in the can and went drinkin' and driving into Atlanta. By the time we hit the first bar, I was well ripped. She knew people everywhere somehow. The 1st bar was very colorful. As in bright colors on the walls and colored lights. She for some reason, probably by my prompting, ripped the sleeves off my t-shirt. Started the tears with her teeth. I must've been warm or something. Then onto the next bar. Then a strip club. And the next and the next. Finally we get to a very dark biker bar. In we go. Apparently she had some unfinished business there. So I go to piss, I may have puked too just to make more room. Hell, what did I care, I wasn't driving. So, I come back out and find her and some dude face to face, ready to scrap. Real quick I go grab my drink off the bar and walk out of the way over by the juke in the corner. And away they went. Pushin' and shovin' cussin' and stompin' all over the bar. I take a swig and think how glad I am that I'm over here and all that's going on over there. Then they took to swingin'. She knocked this fucker out cold. Two or three of his buddies come to defend him and she procedes to beat the shit out of all of them one by one. She never once took a hit although they tried. She was good. Of course the barkeep didn't take kindly to all of this and ordered her out by name. She came over to me, said, drink up lover, I did and out the door we went.
All that scrappin' must've got her worked up because she then took me to a hotel and fucked the living hell out of me. Oh darling Niki.
Between the summers of '92 & '93, I worked in a shit bar in Snellville Georgia. Cooked food, odered pitchers of beer to be brought back to the kitchen because we needed to make more 'beer batter' for the onion rings, did plenty of blow and smoked the dugout under the big stove sucker vents. Well, one night, we'll call her Niki (because I don't remember her name anymore), who had just gotten out of the Navy came in. I get off work and sit by her, order a drink. Niki was a big blonde. Big, as in 6 foot 3 inches and built like a fuckin' tank. Tough chick. Well, we hit it off and keep on drinkin' and she says, 'let's go'. I followed. We got in her car with a case of beer in the can and went drinkin' and driving into Atlanta. By the time we hit the first bar, I was well ripped. She knew people everywhere somehow. The 1st bar was very colorful. As in bright colors on the walls and colored lights. She for some reason, probably by my prompting, ripped the sleeves off my t-shirt. Started the tears with her teeth. I must've been warm or something. Then onto the next bar. Then a strip club. And the next and the next. Finally we get to a very dark biker bar. In we go. Apparently she had some unfinished business there. So I go to piss, I may have puked too just to make more room. Hell, what did I care, I wasn't driving. So, I come back out and find her and some dude face to face, ready to scrap. Real quick I go grab my drink off the bar and walk out of the way over by the juke in the corner. And away they went. Pushin' and shovin' cussin' and stompin' all over the bar. I take a swig and think how glad I am that I'm over here and all that's going on over there. Then they took to swingin'. She knocked this fucker out cold. Two or three of his buddies come to defend him and she procedes to beat the shit out of all of them one by one. She never once took a hit although they tried. She was good. Of course the barkeep didn't take kindly to all of this and ordered her out by name. She came over to me, said, drink up lover, I did and out the door we went.
All that scrappin' must've got her worked up because she then took me to a hotel and fucked the living hell out of me. Oh darling Niki.
Yeah, she's alright. Ties her hair up real cute, and get's a nice blush in her cheeks as she pushes the thing around. There is a hilly section, when she hits that area, she has to push harder, and that's when the damn shorts do their thang.
Sometimes it's the denim models, which are okay, but yesterday's show featured these pink and white cloth types that really skinned the cat. They have a cut that allows for a glimpse of butt on either side.
All this is visible without the aid of binoculars.
mjp
Founding member
Right. The binoculars just make it easier.
OK, I'll tell you a story. A good drunk, but not my worst. My worst was probably when I vomited in the beer bucket during Freshman orientation, summer 1981. Drank any number of beers, blew a few good bones, and then proceeded to blow chunks in the nearest trash barrel. Problem was, it was the beer bucket, with another 50 beers and ice. I had been so proud to hit it. "I HIT THE TRASH CAN, MOTHER FUCKER!"
It wasn't until the next day that someone clued me in to what I had done. 27 years later, all I have to say is "freakin' sweet!" I did not utter those words the next day, however.
Having not learned my lesson, here's another from a few months later:
Freshman year of college, 1981 or 1982, depending on whether there was snow or not. How the hell should I remember that? Frat party, cute blonde with wide exquisite ass. Smokes Newports. Cool; she'll die before me. (Well, isn't that what you think while drunk at 18 and ready to shoot some goo? No, of course not, but it reads well...)
Got to her room at the sister college (they go there for their MRS), and couldn't figure out what to do. No penetration? Fuck.
Hand job? Sure.
So I stumble into the bathroom and look around for something to use.
Ivory soap? No. Used that in the shower at 10. No good.
Scope? Fuck no!
Ahh, good old BenGay. What better than a sports cream to aid in bedroom recreation?
Squirted a healthy amount on my palm and tranferred it to her hand after sticking my tongue down her throat, almost to her bunghole. I could almost taste her stomach acid.
So, she got to work.
Good, ah yes, good...HOLY CRAP!
:eek:
It wasn't until the next day that someone clued me in to what I had done. 27 years later, all I have to say is "freakin' sweet!" I did not utter those words the next day, however.
Having not learned my lesson, here's another from a few months later:
Freshman year of college, 1981 or 1982, depending on whether there was snow or not. How the hell should I remember that? Frat party, cute blonde with wide exquisite ass. Smokes Newports. Cool; she'll die before me. (Well, isn't that what you think while drunk at 18 and ready to shoot some goo? No, of course not, but it reads well...)
Got to her room at the sister college (they go there for their MRS), and couldn't figure out what to do. No penetration? Fuck.
Hand job? Sure.
So I stumble into the bathroom and look around for something to use.
Ivory soap? No. Used that in the shower at 10. No good.
Scope? Fuck no!
Ahh, good old BenGay. What better than a sports cream to aid in bedroom recreation?
Squirted a healthy amount on my palm and tranferred it to her hand after sticking my tongue down her throat, almost to her bunghole. I could almost taste her stomach acid.
So, she got to work.
Good, ah yes, good...HOLY CRAP!
:eek:
Sophomore year at boarding school a schoolmate produces a bottle of vodka. He was a fairly experienced drinker in comparison to me. I grabbed the bottle and guzzled about a quarter of it in one gulp. Cue the much mentioned calm before the storm. He kept saying how impressed he was...never seen anybody do that before. 10 minutes later we are watching TV in the lounge area. I start blowing huge wads of spit onto the screen from about 10 feet. They get me upstairs to my floor's bathroom. I begin puking and cover half the floor, a mirror and fill a sink part way. The senior proctor enters. Gives me a choice: clean the place spotless in about 15 and go to sleep or accompany him to the dorm head. I don't know how spotless I got it, but I was never busted...that time. Worst spins I ever had.
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chronic
old and in the way
Tips? Well, none that I can think of. Be lucky? You probably know the bar. Used to be Danny's on 78. Now it's a chain bar.
Father Luke
Founding member
Buzzcat: That's one hell-uva a story.
I'll have to think a long time before I can top that.
Whoo wee !
I'll have to think a long time before I can top that.
Whoo wee !
