The Worstblogger family is a family of many strengths. One of our greatest strengths is our capacity to handle our liquor. If alcohol tolerance was an Olympic event, we'd probably medal bronze. I've long held that the entire reason that all of us age so well is that we are internally pickled and preserved from the age that we could pick up a can. It took me most of my childhood to realize that Jack Daniels wasn't a blood relative and that "Old Milwuakee" wasn't the capital of one of the 50 states.
I, being the rebel that I am, never became much of a big drinker. My father seemed to drink enough for the both of us (or, indeed, for the whole family) and so during my university days I was more likely to be chugging liters and liters of Coca-Cola than PBR at the student bar. The joke was on me, the Coca-Cola was more expensive and probably had more long-term side-effects to my health than the dollar beers would have.
Despite all this, I never missed a chance to tout my prodigious ability to withstand the rigors of drink. I was the worst sort of armchair quarterback - shouting at others when they were obviously failing in their binge-drinking, expounding tons of advice on how to better drink, and yet never donning the gear and stepping out onto the field myself. This all came to a horrible end one day.
There was a girl (there was always a girl...) named Julie. She was the moon and the stars, and just as unobtainable as those heavenly bodies. I pined after her like a parrot for the fjords. She mixed with my circle of oddball friends, but always managed to have a boyfriend when I was single - or was single when I was not. But not this time. It was her 21st birthday, she had recently broken off with her latest boy (a mutual friend of ours, I'm not the Worst person in the world for nothing). I had recently been dumped by my girlfriend (probably because I spent most of my time looking at Julie and not the girl I was supposed to be dating). There was my window - a glorious opportunity.
Being the generous soul that I am and by dent of being the oldest guy in our circle, one of legal alcohol-purchasing age, I offered to procure the libations. I think I even said "I will procure the libations," a sign at how desperate for her attention and approval I was at the time. A keg was purchased. A house off campus was driven to. A party was started.
Having purchased the keg, I took it upon myself to be "The Keg Guy." Everyone entering the party was given their miserable paper cup and directed to me. I sat there in the backyard, lounging in my luxurious plastic lawn-chair, dispensing brew to all those thirsty souls that came my way. I greeted everyone with a challenge "Hey, giving up already?" as I filled up their dixie cup to the brim and sent them on their way.
The problem came when I realized that I had been pouring myself a drink every time I poured one for someone else. There were easily twenty people at the party - and while there was certainly more booze than just my keg, very few of them turned down a chance at free beer. There's no way to verify this, but I would say that - on a conservative estimate - I must have drank at least ten thousand dixie-cups of cheap beer.
I felt like a king. There in my wonderfully scultped plastic throne, I observed the bonfire with heavy eyes and a light heart. I sat swimming in my thoughts of how I was undoubtedly impressing my unwitting Julie. The poor, innocent fool had no idea that she was being drawn into my web of ... of whatever it was that I was weaving in order to impress and seduce her. Yes, she would be mine at any moment. In fact, there she was now, helping me up out of my plastic perch. And leading me out away from the fire. Funny how your legs seem to notice your intoxication faster than your brain. I must have yawned - was I tired? Do yawns contain physical matter? Julie really is a sweetheart to put me in this taxi and let me rest my head there in her lap.
And now she is in my room, ahh success. And undressing me - her claims that it's just to make me clean fall on deaf ears (I know that she is preparing me for our imminent love-making) - some idiot must have soiled my shirt, because I realized faintly that I was covered in vomit. Into the bathtub I went as caring hands doused me with warm and soothing water. I must have dozed off - because I woke up the next day in a fresh set of pajamas, alone, in my own bed with a note left by Julie saying that I should lay off the drink.
There was to be no frantic love making. Julie didn't speak to me for three weeks after the event - and to top things off, I found out that one of the party-goers who arrived late (a very popular sportsman in our university) had a terrible accident - slipping on a pool of spew, horribly twisting his ankle and removing him from the rest of the seasons sporting events.
I wasn't invited to any more parties. I never understood why. But here are some parties I wouldn't mind joining:
The Libertarian Party
The Raving Loony Monster Party
Rich Burlew's Party
Have a worst party experience? I'd love to hear about it in the comments.