Lemme Tell Ya About The Time .... #2
Or, EvilMister Got No Comfort from Southern Comfort.
This is back in the day, back when EvilMister called himself Jester, and how he wrassled with a 26'er of Southen Comfort and lost.
I had a buddy we called 'Da Keed' 'cuz his dad was this hilarious Polish guy who called his son, well, keeeeeed all the fucking time. Da Keed, me, and Spike (I think that's it, but my memory is kind of hazy, and you'll soon see why) were out for a drive. Da Keed wanted to make out with his girlfriend, who was also there, so we drove to some kind of abandoned railroad area/construction site/place where drunken idiots could easily get hurt. Da Keed thoughtfully pointed out that there was a bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor, and that Spike and I were more than welcome to it, if only we would get the fuck away so he could get some gettin' while the gettin' was hot.
Spike had his own booze, and said he'd prefer to drink his own, on account of SC is poison in a bottle. I said fine, took a swig, and found out the secret of cutting the nasty kick; someone had dissolved a couple of orange lifesavers into the bottle. I was now in possession of what is best described as alcoholic Kool-Aid, and I had no need to share it with anyone.
I don't know about you, but when I was a kid drinkin', I expected immediate results. Over the period of fifteen minutes I finished about half the bottle. I only felt a little wobbly, so I continued to drink, erroneously believing that my weight, height and the lifesavers were all contributing to my immunity.
Holy shit, was I ever fucking wrong. I didn't think a person could be that wrong and live through it to tell a cautionary tale.
Four minutes after my final sip, my good friend Spike had to park me on a big rock because I could no longer walk. I remember trying to tell him I wanted to go home, but couldn't, because my mouth wouldn't work. Gravity became my enemy in a serious way, so I found it necessary, and this is no lie, to hang onto a tree to keep from falling down. Why is this weird? I couldn't use my arms, so I had to bite onto a tree limb. The only thing keeping me conscious was a game I was playing. It was called, Let's See How Many Times I Can Puke In The Same Spot!
Thirteen times, MisterEvil, is the number of times you can puke in one spot!
After that, I didn't have anything left to puke up except vital organs. Da Keed finished humping his girlfriend some time after that, and while I have zero memory of getting home, I must have, somehow, made it into my bed. I don't remember the next morning, or the morning after that.
Never, ever, ever drink an entire bottle of Southern Comfort straight, no matter how good it tastes. Trust me. Huff some Elmer's, do some Whippits, drink paint thinner, but avoid Southern Comfort.
It's the Devil.
This is back in the day, back when EvilMister called himself Jester, and how he wrassled with a 26'er of Southen Comfort and lost.
I had a buddy we called 'Da Keed' 'cuz his dad was this hilarious Polish guy who called his son, well, keeeeeed all the fucking time. Da Keed, me, and Spike (I think that's it, but my memory is kind of hazy, and you'll soon see why) were out for a drive. Da Keed wanted to make out with his girlfriend, who was also there, so we drove to some kind of abandoned railroad area/construction site/place where drunken idiots could easily get hurt. Da Keed thoughtfully pointed out that there was a bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor, and that Spike and I were more than welcome to it, if only we would get the fuck away so he could get some gettin' while the gettin' was hot.
Spike had his own booze, and said he'd prefer to drink his own, on account of SC is poison in a bottle. I said fine, took a swig, and found out the secret of cutting the nasty kick; someone had dissolved a couple of orange lifesavers into the bottle. I was now in possession of what is best described as alcoholic Kool-Aid, and I had no need to share it with anyone.
I don't know about you, but when I was a kid drinkin', I expected immediate results. Over the period of fifteen minutes I finished about half the bottle. I only felt a little wobbly, so I continued to drink, erroneously believing that my weight, height and the lifesavers were all contributing to my immunity.
Holy shit, was I ever fucking wrong. I didn't think a person could be that wrong and live through it to tell a cautionary tale.
Four minutes after my final sip, my good friend Spike had to park me on a big rock because I could no longer walk. I remember trying to tell him I wanted to go home, but couldn't, because my mouth wouldn't work. Gravity became my enemy in a serious way, so I found it necessary, and this is no lie, to hang onto a tree to keep from falling down. Why is this weird? I couldn't use my arms, so I had to bite onto a tree limb. The only thing keeping me conscious was a game I was playing. It was called, Let's See How Many Times I Can Puke In The Same Spot!
Thirteen times, MisterEvil, is the number of times you can puke in one spot!
After that, I didn't have anything left to puke up except vital organs. Da Keed finished humping his girlfriend some time after that, and while I have zero memory of getting home, I must have, somehow, made it into my bed. I don't remember the next morning, or the morning after that.
Never, ever, ever drink an entire bottle of Southern Comfort straight, no matter how good it tastes. Trust me. Huff some Elmer's, do some Whippits, drink paint thinner, but avoid Southern Comfort.
It's the Devil.
posted by Unknown @ 11:09 AM
1 Comments:
I have it's cool too.
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