ROASTY GOES-A-CHURCHIN'

 

January 2005.  Sitting in my counselor’s office, we discuss what the definition of “having a few drinks” is.  He makes a statement, which quite literally I cannot comprehend.  He tells me that anybody that had 8 to 10 beers in a night would be totally shitfaced.  I correct him, saying:  “Eight beers to me is, like dinner.  I would be buzzed, but hardly shitfaced.” 

 

Counselor:  “So, what IS your definition of getting shitfaced?”

Roast:  “Twenty drinks.  Now THAT is shitfaced.”

Counselor:  “Bullshit.  That is dead.”

Roast:  “I’m not dead, and I’ve done it many times.”

Counselor:  “You must have miscounted.”

Roast:  “Here is a story, it gets a little hazy after twenty, but count along with me.”

 

This is the true to life story I told him:

 

August 25, 2000.  Precisely two weeks and one day before I am scheduled to get married to my fiancée.  I am 22 years old, and I am one dumb motherfucker.  The last month before the wedding had been planned down to the nano-second by my ever loving wife-to-be.  This is the last possible weekend that we can attend the MANDATORY Catholic Marriage class that takes all day on Saturday, and all day on Sunday, for those that like to put it off as long as we did.  I should mention right now, that I myself am not Catholic.

 

So, knowing that the weekend is shot, I go and buy an 18 pack of beer on the way home from work on Friday.  I walk up to our town house, and then veer sharply to the right and knock on the neighbor’s door.  We partied with the neighbors a lot, we will call them “Mark” and “Mandy”.  Mandy was a fucking hottie by the way.  (May not have told counselor that…)  Mark answers the door, sees it’s me with an 18 pack, and says:

 

“I guess we are partying tonight, eh?” 

Roast:  “Fuck yeah, I have to pretend I’m Catholic all weekend, so I need something to repent for.” 

So, the ball and chain sees I went over there, and she follows.  She starts smoking pot with Mandy, and Mark and I drink all 18 of those beers, 9 a piece.  After driving to the liquor store to get another eighteener, I meet this at the door:

 

Nag:   “You’d better not be hung over, because we have to be at the church at 7:00 in the God Damned morning!”

 

Roast:  “Shit, how long have you known me?  I can fucking hold my liquor!” 

 

Hello, my name is Roast.  And I am a foot-in-mouthoholic.

 

Well, Mark and I manage to drink 12 of the 2^nd 18 pack that we bought before I hear:

  

Mark:  “Dude, are we getting fucked up tonight, or are you pussy whipped?” 

 

Roast: “Let’s go to the bar and shoot pool, that way the nags can’t follow us.”

 

They couldn’t follow us, because at the time, my fiancée was only 20 years of age, so the bar was a safe haven for me.  So we walk to the bar, as the nags took our keys from us.  We took the last 6 beers from the 2^nd eighteener and stashed them in some bushes for the walk home.  We get there…

 

Counselor:  “Wait, wait.  You stashed a six pack of beer in the bushes?”

Roast:  “Yeah.”

Counselor:  “Why?”

Roast:  “For the walk home.  Duh.  I’m a forward thinker.”

Counselor:  “I see.” (scribbles something on a pad of paper)

 

Back to the story.

 

We get there in a matter of minutes, as it is only three blocks away.  We challenge in on a pool table where four guys were playing teams, and proceed to kick their asses.  We start placing alcohol wagers on every game and we keep winning every game handily.  I’m not that great at pool, but my stars were lined up just right that night.  We win 6 games of pool, with a beer being bought for us after each game. 

 

Counselor:  “So, this fucked up, you could still play pool?”

Roast:  “I play my best half crocked.”

Counselor:  “Ever try playing sober?”

Roast:  “What?  I wasn’t aware you could actually play pool sober.  Anyway, stop interrupting, are you keeping count?”

Counselor:  “Yeah, you are up to eighteen a piece.” (scribbles something on a pad of paper)

Roast:  “Is that what you are writing down, because this is math I can do in my head.”

Counselor:  “Um, yeah.  Sure.  What ever you think it is, that is what it is.”

Roast:  “I haven’t gotten to the shots yet…”

Counselor:  “You did shots too?  Ever think you have a problem?”

Roast:  “My only problem is that the bar always seems to close too early!!”

Counselor: “………….”

 

Note to self, Counselor has no sense of humor.

 

Back to the story.

 

After the third game, I started feeling bad for them, so I say:  “Tell you what, I’ll buy a round of shots for all of us every time I win, and then I’ll be drinking two to one against your team.  So you have a chance.”

I thought this was a stellar idea at the time.  After six games, six beers, three shots, I was starting to have trouble remaining steady enough to line up my pool shots. 

 

When they finally beat us, I politely say:  “YOU FUGGEN GUYS ARE FUGGEN CHEATERS!!  YOU SUNS OF BITCHES!!!!  FUCK YOU!!”

 

At this point we decide to just sit at the bar and drink until closing time.  It was one in the morning, so we didn’t have much time left.  At closing time they sweep us out the door, and Mark and I collect our 6 pack from the bushes, and start home.  I know I was attempting to drink it while walking, and finding this quite difficult.  I fell down several times, and I had abrasions on my pants and arms the next day.  This bar was 3 blocks from the apartment, and yet, I didn’t get in until a quarter to four.  I know that was the time, because when I finally arrived, I pressed my face up against the microwave clock until I could read it.  Yes, it took us over an hour and a half to navigate 3 blocks.  Being approx. 4:00 a.m. in the morning, having to get up at 6:00 to go to church class all day was not looking promising.  But, it was our last chance, or we would have to postpone our wedding. 

 

“If only…”  I sometimes think. 

 

So, two hours later the old lady fucking drags me out of bed, gets me dressed, and drags me to the car, cursing me the whole way.  This may have been funny to her, had it been the first time she had to dress me and stick me in a car to make it to an important event.  Unfortunately for her, it was not.  I sit in the car with the smug satisfaction that I was indeed not pussy whipped yet, smelling like the bar, sweating booze, and the car ride there starts to make my stomach queasy.  We arrive at our destination, and I open my eyes, not to a single church as I thought we were going to.  No, the classes were being held at the Catholic Headquarters of the Rocky Mountain area, the Arch Diocese compound in Denver.  This place was like a big green grass field with old Catholic churches surrounding it.  It was a monument to how much money the Catholic Church makes, and it was impressive.  So we arrive on time, and manage to locate where we are supposed to go. 

 

At this point, I have the shakes from being dehydrated, I can’t see strait, I am sweating profusely, and can feel the valve of my bowls about to bust loose at both ends.  We meet our teacher for the weekend, Christopher West.  First thing he went over was our agenda, breaks, lunches, and where the bathroom was located.  As soon as the bathrooms were pointed out, I, trying to be subtle, grabbed my stomach, put my hand over my mouth, and sprinted for them.  I manage to make it there, and proceed to violently hack my guts out, in the church bathroom.  I’m in there for nearly 20 minutes, then wash up, splash water on my face, and walk back out there. 

 

I am a fucking site now, as my hair is all wet, I have sweat staining the back of my shirt and around my armpits.  It looks as if I just got done working out and then gave myself a swirly afterward.  I stumble back out and sit down next to my beloved, who is obviously fuming mad.  My head is starting to spin, and I just put my head down in my hands and weave back and forth. 

 

The next trip to the bathroom was even better, because as I was rushing through the door, I wasn’t sure what to do.  I could either:  kneel down and vomit in the toilet, thus shitting my pants.  Or I could sit on the can, and puke on the floor, thus making a huge mess.  As luck would have it, there was a trash can inside the door, and I elected to not shit my pants in church, and instead vomit in the trash as I was having uncontrollable drunken shits on the toilet. 

 

Side note:  If you have never had drunken diarrhea and uncontrollable vomiting at the same time, I highly recommend it.  That right there is the true definition of relief.  I’ve never felt so good, and so bad at the same time.

 

I continue to make repeat trips to the bathroom every 15-20 minutes for the next two hours.  Of course, most of it after the first two times was just dry heaving.  I tell you what, there is nothing like being in a small public bathroom, dry heaving, when there is a break and a line of guys to take a piss on the other side of a thin partition.  Nobody talks, they just stand in silence, listening to my “UUUUUHHHHHGGGTHTHTHTH”  Choke, choke.  Spit, spit.  I finally regain some composure by lunchtime.  I didn’t eat any thing for lunch, just went out to the grassy yard and passed out.  The ball and chain wakes me up with a gentle nudge (read: kick) and we head back in. 

 

Lucky for me the massive, atomic melt down headache kicked in shortly after that.  If only I knew the hangover would be this bad.  I mean, I’d been that drunk approximately 700 times before, and well at least two or three times I was able to function the next day.  I figured I was due a no-hangover-binge.

 

My counselor, speechless, just stares at me. 

Roast: “So, yeah, 8 or 10 beers is like, a good buzz.  It takes about twice that for me to be what I would call Shitfaced”. 

Counselor says:  “Have you ever heard of self sabotage?  Maybe this was your way of saying you were not ready to be married.”

Roast: “Possibly, but I was thinking it had more to do with me being such a tremendous asshole.”

 

For more tales of debauchery, click here...