Number Two: Buffett Day 2005

Alright, now we're getting into the meat of things. The second drunkest I have ever been in my life. And this one is a doozy.

Another Buffett Day, this one in 2005. The first Buffett Day that I was 21. Not that I ever had problems getting booze, especially on a Buffett Day, but it was still nice.

This year, due to some social probation issues, we couldn't have it at the fraternity house, so we had it at someone else's place. Poor them. They ended up with a horseshoe through big glass window for their troubles. And it rained all day. (UPDATE: I was informed by a gentleman who lived at that house, that it wasn't in fact a horseshoe that broke the window, it was a beer bottle, thrown by someone at another someone. Apologies.)

The day began with a usual Buffett Day challenge, and some horseshoes. I can't remember what happened exactly (shocker), but I remember getting into an argument over a horseshoe game.

My partner tried his most eloquent, logic-based argument to prove we were right. Meaning, he threw a folding chair at the other side.

Well, I'll be a monkey's bare-assed uncle if that there folding chair didn't land right over the pole, giving my friend a ringer. Greatest fucking thing I've ever seen.

Later, it was getting dark, and more rainy, and we got bored being cooped up playing video games. So we decided to get out the Pam, and turn the people's tile kitchen floor into an ice rink. Luckily the guy who suggested it happened to live there, much to the chagrin of his roommates.

I'll admit, with the inclement weather and such, I had pretty much decided that I wasn't going to do the challenge. For shame, I know.

But a funny thing happened. 11:25 rolled around, and I only had about five to go. Let me tell you something. Anyone that says peer pressure is bullshit is a fucking moron. You try to say no to people who just want to pour delicious alcohol down your throat.

So I ended up pounding the last five beers, doing three in the last ten minutes, finishing at about 11:58. But the night wasn't over yet. Not by a fucking long shot.

We kept drinking, and I don't know what time it was, but eventually my buddy suggest we head over to his boss's place and have a drink.

My buddy wasn't in school, he was working for a landscape company full time. His boss was the biggest redneck of them all, a former marine, and one motherfucking I would never, EVER want to be on the wrong side of.

So we head over to his house, which happens to be miles outside of town, I don't remember where. I didn't drive, we actually had a sober driver, which was nice.

So we get to the house, and the boss's wife is up, and his kids are having a sleepover in the living room. Of their trailer. So we stumble up, several of us holding cans of beer.

And the redneck stops us dead in our track.

"Hold up there, boys. We don't drink that shit around here."

What? Could my buddy have been mistaken? Were we about to get gunned down in a hail of glorious redneck bullets?

"Boys, we drink this shit here." And he pulls out a handle (1.75 Liters, for those of you keeping score at home) of Jim Beam whiskey. Oh. My. God.

I woke up in my bed on my side, and the first thing I see is a straight line. A straight line coming from my mouth, across my bed, onto my carpet, and on my loveseat, which is about three feet away.

A line, made of vomit. With chunks of potatoes. For some reason.

I had puked in my sleep, only the second time I ever did that in my life (when was the first? could it have been......I guess you'll have to wait until tomorrow).

I never found out what happened that night, we were all too shitfaced, except for the driver, but he waited in the car for the hours we were there. I'm pretty sure that poor, poor handle of Beam didn't survive the night.

So, needless to say I felt like shit in the morning, which was a Sunday. I drank water all day, got blazed a few times, and took the hottest shower imaginable, and I still felt like shit.

I went to a friend's place that night to watch a movie, and I still felt like absolute shit. I took some Nyquil, passed out around 10:30.

Woke up for a 11:15 class, still felt like shit. Skipped it. Took another hot shower, still felt like shit.

And so it went, until Wednesday, when I still felt like shit, and I decided I should probably go to the doctor's.

Went to the campus health center, and got the verdict: pneumonia.

I drank myself into fucking pneumonia.

Holy fucknuts. I didn't even know that was possible.

Bonus Honorable Mention

I'm a sports fan. Basketball is my favorite sport, but I also love football and baseball.

I will never forget the fall of 2004. My beloved Red Sox come back from a 3-0 deficit to win their first World Series in 86 years.

Ironically enough, I forget a lot about the night they won.

We had been getting into the baseball playoffs the whole Yankees series, and we were at a fever pitch by the time the Sox made it into the World Series.

The Sox were up 3-0 heading into game 4, which was a Wednesday night. I didn't want to jinx it, but I called a few friends and politely informed them that, if the Sox happened to be up late in the game, that we were getting obliterated.

Come the sixth inning, the Red Sox were up 3-0, and we headed to the bar.

The same bar that was a block from my house, and happened to take the Discover card, the card that got sent to my parents' house. How nice of them to by drinks for the night.

We were the only group there, and we were getting rowdy. One of the waitresses was from Boston, so she was just as into it as we were.

As the bottom of the ninth came, we did our usual tradition for big games: a shot per out. Tequila, followed by Jager, followed by Gentleman Jack for the third and final out.

One. Two. Three. Fuck yeah.

As I made drunken calls to my parents and my friends, we ordered champagne, which probably hadn't happened in that bar since the mid 90's. They did find us a few bottle, and we drank them without hesitation.

As the celebration continued, I went to the bathroom, most likely to piss.

However, very little piss came out. Vomit, however, went everywhere. I remember walking around the bathroom, puking all over the place, getting it everywhere but the toilet.

I came out, and loudly proclaimed, "I think someone puked all over the bathroom."

Needless to say, we were soon escorted off the premises.

But getting wasted while watching the Red Sox win big games is nothing new to me. Take 2007 for instance, when the Red Sox found themselves in a 3-1 hole to the Indians in the ALCS. I watched them battle back to a decisive game 7.

For game 7, a Sunday, I went out on the town. Germantown to be exact.

Now, you might be saying, "what sort of productive member of society goes out and get hammered watching a non-championship baseball game on a Sunday night."

And I answer, not a productive member of society. At this point, I had no job, no prospects, no conceivable reason to even get up in the morning. So I had time.

And use it well, I did. I got fucked up, and even did the three shots for the last three outs thing.

I think.

I was driven home in the back of a pickup truck, and I think I tried to get out during a stop to Taco Bell.

When I got back to my friends house, I spent most of the night throwing up, and laying on his bathroom floor, begging for death.

I left my car at the bar, and lost my wallet.

Not good times.

Who am I kidding?

Good times, good times.

See you tomorrow for you grand finale. It will not disappoint, I promise.