Last night I was witness to and and the lead role in both the single most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life and the single most emergency situation of my entire life, respectively. What follows is a puke/shit story, the likes of which, my words could never do proper justice to the actual viewing of/partaking of, in two parts…
Names have been changed to protect the wasted.
Location: The Strip Club Meat & Fish, St. Paul, MN
I arrived at the restaurant at roughly 8:30pm. I should have known by the look on the host’s face when I told him I was there for the bachelor party dinner that my friends had already been up to no good. I found them seated at a long table in the balcony of the restaurant. Aside from my friend Alex, who doesn’t drink, I was the only one that wasn’t d-to-the-runk-drunk. In fact I hadn’t even had a drop, seeing as how it was a Tuesday night. (Yes, a bachelor party on a Tuesday night. Conventional ideas need not apply to a group of artists.) Anyway, Oscar, the bachelor was seated…well, not so much seated, as he was slumped forward, arms and head on the table, in a deep sleep, at the far end of the table. It took several attempts to rouse him from his drunken slumber just long enough to wave a hello at me. (Or was it a middle finger?) Then he promptly returned his head to the table and slipped back into darkness. And believe, as we were about to find out, he was most certainly in a dark place. I was seated next to another friend, Louis, who proceeded to slur-scream at me, “Give me some money!” And then more calmly but not the least bit less slurry ask, “Can I use your phone?” I attempted to let him use my phone but he dropped it a few times and was completely unable to remember which number he wanted to dial. After a few more ill-fated attempts to get money from me, his wife showed up and took his drunken ass home. Apparently just minutes before I arrived he had successfully contacted her with Alex’s phone but had no recollection of this. I knew they were renting a pedal pub around 5:30 but was still surprised at how hammered everyone was. Alex told me they had stopped at various establishments along the way to have shots of Jameson and other libations between relentless poundings of keg beer on said pedal pub. Ah, whiskey; that will do it. Sensing the situation wasn’t going to get any better, as everyone had more drinks in front of them, the waitress urgently asked us to place our food orders. I ordered the Loaded Burger which didn’t have much of a menu description other than “just how the cook wants to make it” or something like that. I didn’t take into account that I haven’t been eating a whole lot of meat lately and absentmindedly ordered it medium but a little on the pink side. This would turn out to be a nearly disastrous mistake, to be discussed in Act 2. Let’s return to the disaster at hand, shall we? I noticed that Oscar didn’t order, as he was sleeping and all, and asked if anyone was going to order for him. Everyone sort of looked at each other and concluded that it was probably not a good idea. Then Todd, who had organized this little party, tells us the Oscar had not eaten today in preparation for the bach party. He was probably assuming the evening would start out with diner. Ah ha, and that would explain his extreme wastoidness. Well a little time passed when suddenly Oscar arose from the dead with a look that any seasoned veteran of the party knows means only one thing: “OH SHIT, HERE IT COMES!” Even if he wasn’t seated all the way at the end of the table in tight quarters there was no way he was going to make it to safety in time. He put his hands up to cover his mouth and that’s when it began. The classic hurl that is the sprung-a-leak-puke began spraying in all directions from between his fingers. Quickly we passed down any empty glasses we could find. People were dumping their waters on the floor in order to provide him with more empties but he was filling them faster than we could get them to him. You know how at super huge keg parties you keep filling glasses without ever shutting the tap off and people just keep pushing their cups in the stream while someone else pumps the tap? Well that’s what this was like, except with a human keg of hurl. Eventually he stopped and we started stashing the glasses of vomit under the table, I guess in hopes of the staff not finding out. Oscar puts his head down again and it appeared the worst wass behind him. A waiter arrived with the first couple plates of food and of course walked right down to Oscar’s end of the table. And this is when it got good. Just as the waiter is starting to set food down, Oscar raised his head one more time. And yes he has that look again. And when I say unleashed, I’m not being liberal with my use of the term. He unleashed what can only be described as a full blast fire hose stream of chunky puke all over the waiter’s crotchal region and down his legs. Now, as a lifelong due-paying member of the party scene, I have seen some amazing pukes in my life. But this was unequivocally the single most amazing display of projectile hurlage mine two eyes have ever had the pleasure of laying themselves upon. The waiter, now wearing puke pants, could only smile. We all tried our hardest not to laugh. Everyone started throwing around apologies and offering to help clean up. For reasons unbeknownst to me, the wait staff allowed us to eat our meals before kicking us out. Yes, you read that right; a little (and by little, I mean a TON) of puke is not going to stop some hungry drunks from indulging on some steaks and pork bellies…and Loaded Burgers. Loaded Burgers ordered medium, but served raaaaaaaaaaare. Oh, and the “loaded” part: yeah that was bacon. Heated; not cooked, but heated…bacon. You see where I’m going with this?
Act 2 (Deuce)
Location: Bus Stop off of 94W at Huron Blvd SE, Mpls, MN
We tipped the wait staff an ungodly amount of money, which I imagine still didn’t make up for the mountains of vomit and mental trauma left in our wake, and decide that this is probably a good time to call it a night. It was about 9:30. An hour after I arrived at the restaurant, and roughly 10 minutes after I hurriedly ingested the first real substantial amount of meat I’ve had in a dozen days: an uncooked bacon burger. I offered to give my friend Austin a ride home, for he of the heavily intoxicated variety could surely use it. On the way to Austin’s house we were not so much having a good laugh at Oscar’s expense as we are discussing what an outstanding maneuver the man pulled off. I discovered that in order to protect his food from being covered in puke (he was sitting next to Oscar), Austin had stuffed his sandwich in the pocket of his jeans. Which would explain why he kept dancing around as we were leaving, singing “sandwich pants, sandwich pants.” I tell you man, these guys were waaaaaaaasted. I am surprised nobody else puked. And especially that there was no chain reaction of hurl started by Oscar’s gross, albeit impressive and quite hilarious feat. Anyway, I dropped Austin off at his place and he headed towards the house, singing the sandwich pants song some more. It’s at this point that I felt the first little bit of discomfort in the nether regions. There was something coming on but it wasn’t enough to stop me from getting on the highway. Just as I am a veteran of the party scene I am also a veteran of the having-to-take-a-shit-right-now scene. (It’s not IBS or anything; I just know when I gotta go.) At this point it felt more like a just-take-a-shit-when-you-get-home pain than it did an emergency. Well, no sooner had I got on 94 than it hit me. And it hit me hard. You know that movie Rumble In The Bronx? Well, my gut was the Bronx, and shit (literally) was rumbling through my borough. My mind went into panic mode, OMG, I’m going to shit my pants…while driving. This is actually going to happen. The sloshing in my belly moved straight to the sphincteral gates of my tightly puckered anus in a matter of seconds. I was now clenched so hard that I was attempting to stand and drive to try to release the added abdominal/anal pressure caused by sitting. (I’ve never shit while standing, so I assumed this was a good idea.) I was swerving around the highway, nervously looking for an exit that would have a secluded area. One thing was crystal clear to me at this point: I was going to be butt-raped by diarrhea and there was nothing I could do about it. I just didn’t want to happen in the car. Ruining a nice pair of Levis is one thing but covering your driver’s seat in liquid stench is another. I took the first exit I could find. It was a bus stop just off the highway used for express transfers. Thankfully there was a fence with vines on it that acted as a barrier between me and the highway. I jumped out, dropped my pants and squatted against the car just in the nick of time. My ass unleashed (again, not being liberal here) what felt like gallons upon gallons of the most vile, disgusting, acidic, chocolate bung pudding I have ever had the displeasure of excrementing. It was like when you put your thumb over a water hose except the water looked like rancid Indian food and smelled like turd and the hose was literally an asshole and there was no thumb. After 60 seconds of straight shitting, I was amazed to discover that not one single drop had hit the car, my shoes, or the back of my pants AND nobody saw me puking out of my butthole in public. I guess the gods of pants-shitting were looking over me. I used a handful of fast food napkins from the glove box to wipe my ring-of-fire and bathed in hand sanitizer before I tore out in a blaze of glory (and relief,) leaving behind me a human cow pie the size of a garbage can lid. You know, something nice for the morning commuters to gaze upon as the waited for the bus today.