Avoiding the Dreaded DUI or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Van.

So, It's Friday night and you've hit the town something fierce.  Assuming you're not a total vagina, you had big plans for the evening and you carried them out like a champ.  But as the final events of the night draw to a close, you run into a small snag.  After hitting every happening club in town, and exhausting all the bar-skank possibilities one can without crossing state lines, you're now in dire need of a place to crash for the night.  You sit in some random apartment watching the kickass after after-party you just dominated die down.  You consider your options carefully.

Ordinarily, you'd shack up at a friend's place, but apparently that's a big no can do this evening.  Maybe all your friends are trying to get lucky, or more likely, maybe you're just alpha as fuck and have no friends.  Don't worry, friends are for fags anyway.  Realizing you're not going to be getting home tonight, you try to secure a spot in a puke free corner of the apartment to bed down for a couple hours.  But before you can even roll up your sweatshirt to make a small pillow, one of the tenants gets all up in your grill.  He doesn't know you, and the douche wants you out of his place.  Your situation is turning increasingly serious, and your thoughts desperate.  Your evening is quickly turning into the movie After Hours, and that scares the shit out of you.

 

Where are you going to sleep for the night?  Can you sleep at a bus station?  Do people actually do that? No, they don't.  Bums rape people who sleep at bus stations.  Maybe you should try to walk home.  It's a long way, but you could make it in a few hours.  Do people actually do that?  No, they don't.  Drifters rape people who try to walk home.

 

Now, I've been in your position a dozen times before.  And yes, I have attempted to walk home at least once and dealt with the ramifications of making that decision.  But I've found a solution, and my God what a glorious solution it is.  The answer is simple, just sleep in your car.  Do you have a van?  Then get one, it makes things even easier.  Just put the seats down, throw a mattress in back, and you're good to go.  When I roll out to get my drink on, I ride dirty in a 1999 Dodge Grand Caravan.  It's gold, motherfucker.

See now, instead of trying to find a random place to visit the sandman, or trying to drive home when you know your drunk ass shouldn't be driving, you've got a mobile bedroom sitting right out front.  But hey, it gets even better.  Say you've met a nice upstanding young female, and you'd like to find a location for the two of you to sin in creative and unsanitary ways.  Well hey, now you've got it parked just a stone's throw away!   Be careful though, introducing the idea of fornicating in the back of a motor vehicle can quickly start to sound creepy.  You're going to need to bring the idea up slowly, and carefully.  At no point should you jokingly refer to your van as a "Rape Van."  In fact, don't even use the word rape or van in the same sentence.  Seriously, trust me on this one.  

What Are You Spraying Me With?

I swear, every time I drink rum bad things happen.  It's like there's a curse, a pirate's curse no doubt, that guarantees I get violently ill and black out long before sunrise.  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy the stuff.  But, just like every relationship I've ever had, the end result is always someone getting murdered or raped.  I'm just kidding, those things almost never happen.

Case in point, one of the only two legitimate fights I've been in took place after a night of drinking copious amounts of rum.  Coincidence?  Perhaps, but I point the finger of blame away from myself and squarely at the booze in question.  It'll angry up the blood, erase the mind, and empty out what's left of the Taco Bell in your stomach.  Yeah, I had a little captain in me, but not anymore.

Usually when I throw up, I can feel it coming from a mile away.  Some guys, they're sitting there talking and mid-sentence the contents of their stomach just explodes everywhere, out of fucking nowhere.  It's a real treat to watch.  If you're standing across the room, that is.  Anyway, I don't really do that.  I know when what I put down is coming up, and I usually sneak off without anyone even knowing.  Usually, that is.

One of the only times I've come extremely close to throwing up right in someone's face was, I believe, directly the result of consuming too much rum.  It was at a massive house party.  The kind of party where there is barely standing room, and the house is overflowing with people that spill out into the backyard.  It was a loud party, with Tapout shirts and the bitches that covet them as far as the eye could see.  You know the cops are on their way, it's just a matter of time.

Anyway, at some point I met a guy who was carrying around a bottle of Parrot Bay.  I was able to get the bottle from him and then walk away when he wasn't paying attention.  It wasn't his to begin with, so I felt that justified me essentially stealing it from him.  If you're already hammered, it's a good idea to abstain from carrying a bottle of hard alcohol around.  You'll drink more of it than you should, people will try to bogart what little you have left, and you'll end up carrying an empty bottle around before you know it.  I drank more of it than I should have.

The night became a complete blur from that point on, and almost all I remember prior to throwing up and subsequently blacking out is meeting an Asian engineering student who could play the violin.  I don't remember his name, but he was kickass.

 

I ended up standing in a circle on the edge of the back patio with Sarah, some other girl I think I'd met before, and a bunch of guys I didn't know.  I'm standing there listening to them talk about Jersey Shore and as if on cue, I realize I'm about to throw up.  I twisted sideways and pushed away from the group as vomit erupted from my mouth.  It splattered on the edge of the cement I think, but most of it made it into the yard.  I specifically remember that almost no one around even noticed, other than the people I was standing with.  Still, I felt pretty stupid.   

Sarah stood with me while I was doubled over in the yard moments later.  After that I could distinctly see a couple chunks of vomit on her shirt.  She hadn't seen them, and I was damn sure not going to point them out.  She probably never noticed them, actually.  Probably ended up going home with a friend, crashed on that friend's couch in her clothes, and now part of my dinner from that evening is rubbed into the fabric on some random sofa somewhere.  People are probably sitting on some form of my stomach Jack in the Box right now, as I write this.  But, I digress. 

So, was rum directly responsible for me puking in front of people that evening, and then getting that said puke on Sarah?  Shit yes.  Well ok, maybe some other factors also came into play.  But still, I'm telling you, rum is bad news.  And Jesus Christ, if one more person tells me to get my Island on, I'm going to stab myself in the face. 

Big Momma's House

So the night is off to a good start, and the festivities of the party are in full swing.  Sarah is knocking back shots of Smirnoff with two girls who look like they're barely pushing the tender age of 17.  One looks like Miley Cyrus, and the other more like Jonah Hill in the movie "Cyrus."  Why does every remotely attractive girl always roll with a fat homely friend?  Is it a distraction, just like Jonah Hill?  Are they simply there to make Seth Rogen look more physically fit?

I tell the guy I just met that I'm going to go talk to my girlfriend, but that I'll bring him a beer on my way back.  I won't come back, though.  I head over to talk to Sarah.  Usually, Sarah acts like a total bitch to me when she's drinking with strangers.  She basically acts like she doesn't know me.  Tonight is no exception.  "So is it time for some shots?" I say, as I pick up the handle of Smirnoff off the table.  Before I can even finish my sentence, Jonah has angrily grabbed the bottle away from me with her elephantine claws.  "You don't just take someone's drink that they paid for.  I had to pay for this.  I didn't even offer it to you," she yells.  And now this random girl has to feel my wrath.  "Jesus, sorry.  I thought I was doing you a favor.  Alcohol has a lot of calories in it," I say with a big grin.  Everyone who's even a little fat instantly knows when you're making light of their weight problem, but they always have to say "What's that supposed to mean?"  I scratch the side of my head.

 

"Well" I tell her, "It's just that you already look sort of bloated, and I'm afraid if you drink anymore we might have to call the fire department or the police or something.  Not because of your intoxication, but because we don't have the tools to knock a hole in the wall for you."  I laugh casually and continue.  "I mean, how else are you going to make it outside the building?  The door hasn't been an option since you were 7.  How did you get in here?"  I look around the room dramatically.  "Is there a giant skylight somewhere that I missed?  Wait, is this your house?  Do you just always stay inside, because you can't leave?  Should I regale you with stories from the outside world?  People out there have less volume than you, it's amazing, you wouldn't believe it."  At this point, I realize I'm basically yelling and that all three girls are looking at me in absolute horror.  I've literally just launched into a drunken rant against a mildly heavy set girl (who I'm sure is normally quite the charmer) for virtually no reason.

Did I feel embarrassed when they all told me I was a bad person and proceeded to chew me out?  Or when Jonah basically started crying, and her friend had to rush her off to the deepest isolated nethers of the house?  Well, yes.  But I'd like to think I made a positive difference in that young girl's life.  I mean hell,  the next day she no doubt sobered up and said to herself  "Today I'm going to do it, today I'm going to start a slimmer way of life.  I'll show that good looking guy from the party!"  You know what?  I'm less a man than a saint.    

A Word About Pre-Gaming:

Every good evening of bar hopping should ideally start at a mutual acquaintance's condo/apartment.  You should avoid houses like the plague.  Houses are safe havens for people who value their belongings and intended to settle into a domestic life as soon as possible.  Stay away from those people, they're pretty but they're dead inside.  The goal with pre-gaming should always be to reach the perfect level of euphoric inebriation.  A state of drunken harmony, wherein the casual alcoholic is firing on all verbal cylinders.  Drunk enough for Twister, not drunk enough to skinny dip.

Most people, realizing how expensive bar hopping is going to be, imbibe a fair amount more than they should far too early in the evening.  This is a mistake.  You know that girl you locked eyes with when you first joined the group?  The one who started looking better and better as you knocked back those additional ill advised shots of Stoli?  The one you decided you were definitely going to converse with once you were drunk enough?  Guys like me will have her doubled over the bed while you're still doubled over outside, puking on your shoes.  We showed up with our confidence.  You had to drink yours.

Learn your limits, and adhere to them.  It's not about how many drinks you can get down, it's about how many you can keep down. Remember junior, too much of a good thing can be a great thing, but we all have to start somewhere. 

Jack and Jill

At 2:30 in the afternoon I got a phone call.  It was Jill, my 15 year old neighbor.   She apologized for waking me, and then clumsily explained the reason she called.  It seemed that Jill had a couple girlfriends over, and  she figured I could provide them with some spirituous beverages.  This is the point where a responsible adult would have declined her request, and issued a stern lecture.  But, since I didn't  see anyone else around, I agreed, and hung-up before she could smother me with appreciation.   I'd bought alcohol for Jill several times before with no moral qualms, but this time I felt rather hesitant.  I was starting to get the distinct impression she was using me simply to fulfill her lust for inebriation.  Scratch that.  I knew she was using me, but I was starting to realize I didn't like it.

Jill wanted a bottle of Jack Daniel's.  What kind of girl drinks Jack Daniel's?  Girls never drink Jack Daniel's. Especially not 15 year old vegan girls that wear sandals a lot, and talk about Whale Wars.  Girls like that don't drink whiskey, men do.  Jill was only 15, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt and assumed she'd only been sexually active for about 8 years.  Still, I had a sneaking suspicion she was lying to me about the kind of company she was currently keeping.   I changed my mind, I wasn't bringing her any booze this time.

I sent her a txt on my phone.  It read: "hey..  I'll get u sum JD but we gotta drink it togethr  ; )"  The winky face was key.  Thoughts of me in a dirty bathrobe taking advantage of her fragile naked body probably raced through her head.  In her mind, the cool older guy next door was instantly replaced by a beer swilling rapist from the backwoods.  Totally freaked her out.  I probably won't hear from her for  a while.  Mission accomplished.  As I write this, I raise a newly poured glass of Jack Daniel's high into the air.  Cheers.