i ate a whole dog

Moet & Chandon

// JRad // February 2nd, 2010 // 1 Comment » // Drunken Debauchery, Jrad's Blog, Stories

It had been a fine evening with two friends – we had polished off a couple of bottles of bubbly and a third of soju in celebratory fashion to mark the first night for one of them at a new unit. The clock stroke an hour past midnight and with solemn farewells, I declined a passing taxi and set off on foot, homeward bound.

With my earphones in and the harmonies of Muse blaring deep into my aural canals, I was in a world unto my own. Suddenly I looked up and saw a young lady talking to me. Who are these people (she was with a friend), and are they perhaps after one of my beloved kidneys, I thought. With earphones out, I discovered the two English lasses were seeking good times at Barsoma but had no idea of its location. The bar was very close and I could see it was closed. Being a Thursday night I knew the girls would have a better chance of social glorification and alcohol consumption in the city (student night) so being the gentleman that I so strongly strive to be, I proposed a mutual adventure into the city. Heck it was on my way home anyway.

When we got there we were disappointed to find that two of the bars had closed, with a third living up to the lame standards it had previously set by way of karaoke and bogan beer garden. Not one to leave my new friends forlorn, I swallowed my pride and took them to the only other viable spot – the casino – home of drunken students and freshly turned 18 year olds, Asian ladies spending their husband’s pay cheques, a multitude of lower socio-economic folk, and people desperate to keep their night times shenanigans alive. I would like to think that we fell into the latter category.

Nothing of notable excitement happened at said gambling house, and we soon found ourselves at the back exit, pondering the next move. But by divine intervention, our banter was interrupted by an enterprising middle-aged chap asking if we would like to come back to his hotel room for complementary beverages and general merrymaking. It appeared he had rounded up others with the same intention, so the group set off to the casino hotel, the next block away.

The hotel room was large and regal. Old style furniture no doubt made of rich mahogany, lush patterned carpet, and a wrought iron chandelier above a giant well made bed graced us as we entered the temporary abode. Tim, as I came to know him, was a successful business man, boasting ownership of five companies and a modest hourly income of $10 000. Money was accordingly of no concern for him and he instructed us to the mini bar. Like a pack of hungry monkeys on an unguarded banana, we attacked whilst our shrieks of delight echoed through the hotel, sparking the occasional noise complaint.

Jack, another young recruit from the casino, phoned room service and coolly ordered three bottles of Moet & Chandon. He is a gentleman and a scholar who is going long ways in my books. In the meantime, Tim had but one thing on his mind: Cocaine. “I want Cocaine! Get me cocaine! I will pay anything for it… I will buy it for all of us… I love cocaine! Make some calls! I will pay $1000 for a gram. I will pay anything!” as he produced a handful of hundreds from his pocket. Much to his dismay, no one was able to rustle up any so he had to settle for the hotel liquor instead. Apparently his usual dealers were well known footballers in Melbourne or Sydney.

A young bellhop arrived, pushing a cart with the three finest bottles of champagne one could purchase this side of the casino and a pyramid of flutes to assist with the oesophageal consumption. Tim casually signed the surprise $360 bill, without a worry in the world as we popped the bottles. He also accosted Young Bellhop for “ladies”. Young Bellhop said he would see what he could do, though we knew he would not even be entertaining the thought.

And so continued our joyous activities. We were but a group of strangers moulded together like adjacent pancakes in an overcrowded pan. And Tim was the chef.

Soon enough he had his eye on one of the English girls. And while I was enjoying conversation with the other, he stole her away to the stately bathroom. Some time later, my girl became anxious about what may be happening behind closed doors so like a well practiced home invader (or someone with a coin) she picked the lock and pushed the door open, exposing Tim and newly acquianted lady-friend in a highly compromising position on the bathroom floor. In her shock, she backed away, leaving the door open. “Ah, you should close the door” I pointed out. With this she retreated out of the hotel room, stating she had to go home. She was clearly upset with her friend, and was no longer in the partying mood. Walking down the corridor I tried to reason with her that her friend is able to make her own decisions, but she had made up her mind. A few seconds later the girl in question came chasing after us and the two got into the elevator. I stood there with another of the guys, without saying a word, and as the elevator doors closed we turned around and headed back to the hotel suite. It was not time to call it a night just yet.

And as the scorching sun rose over the horizon, we continued our ingestion of the French dry white sparkling wine, enjoying our free bounty and reminiscing on the finer things in life. Tim was passed out in his bed (waking only once to expel the malevolent contents of his stomach) – he had a meeting to attend in a few hours, and as six in the a.m. rolled around I departed for home, laughing to myself over the events of the night.

I wonder if Tim ever made his meeting.

A Brief History Of Time: Epic Vomiting Adventures – Part 2

// JRad // November 29th, 2009 // 1 Comment » // Drunken Debauchery, Jrad's Blog

6) It was our annual college ball. This meant nice venue, suited up, and unlimited drinks. I was still in the amateur stage of not knowing my limit which was quite dangerous, as there were literally tables full of pre-poured spirits, there I assume to save the bar tenders’ time. I attacked the bourbon and coke table. Pretty sure there were at least 10 cups necked within half an hour. And this was after pre-drinks. Some time soon, all was blurry and I stumbled to the bathrooms. I found the cubicle, turned the light off, and sat there in the dark, intermittently spewing, and passing out. That was the entire night. Somehow I emerged as the ball ended and I stumbled to the bus heading back to college. Luckily I had a window seat, for as the bus rolled on, I had my head pressed between the small gap of the window and the frame and continued to hurl. I’m pretty certain the driver in the car next to us was thinking is this how I want my life to turn out?

7) I was in grade two, and awoke one morning feeling quite sick. Unfortunately my parents showed little compassion and made me go to school. Mid-morning I started to feel feint and very sick. There was little time. A millisecond before I projected the vileness from my stomach, an unsuspecting girl had walked across my path. A millisecond after she was covered in my vomit and I was being escorted to the sick bay. Amid her tears, she would have been agonizing, is this how I want my life to turn out? (Karma is a bitch though, if not a little delayed – 17 years later in Germany, I was puked on by some lame American student who could not handle his shot of Jager).

8} After a heavy night of full-moon partying on Koh Chang, Thailand, I awoke feeling somewhat unhealthy. I made it to the dodgy outdoor “restaurant” and ordered a fried rice with beef. As I waited, I thought perhaps a cold drink would help relieve my discomfort. That was the day I learnt not to drink anything citrusy when hungover. After sipping at an icy lemon drink, I immediately knew a big mistake had been made. I was up and looking around in panic for a nearby bathroom. “Toilet” I said to the lady there but she returned my angst ridden statement with a blank look. “Toilet?” Nothing. So I motioned the action of peeing and made a “pssssssss” noise. Body language truly is the universal language. She pointed away, up the hill. By this time I was desperate. Walking past the cafes, I suddenly realised I wasn’t going to make it, but not wanting to draw attention to myself, I didn’t run like I so desperately wanted to. I just kept the steady walk. Then it happened. Still in upright position and moving forward, I vomited, a projectile liquid storm shooting horizontally and splashing onto the ground. But I kept my calm face and controlled pace, felling the vomit splash on my feet as I walked. Two seconds later, another large amount of lemony water and stomach acid came hurling out of my mouth escaping from the dark pit of my stomach in protest to my holiday party lifestyle. Finally I reached my destination – a large tree that would shield me from the public view. I stopped, bent over and released what was left in my gut, then walked back and ate my fried rice and beef. The thai lady was probably asking herself is this how I want my life to turn out?

9) We were 15 years old. My mate was staying over one night but we had snuck out to the local park with a bottle of Wild Turkey. We sat on the fort and drank it straight being the naïve youths that we were. The rest felt like a dream, but I do know that we stumbled and tumbled down to a service station where we had concocted a brilliant plan to steal some chocolate. But it was closed thank God. Upon returning home, I had decided it was best to expel the evil spirit within, and whilst laughing like a madman, proceeded to park a glorious tiger all over the driveway (thankfully it was a long gravel and dirt driveway so no hosing was necessary). Later that night I awoke in a mysterious liquid. Turns out loss of bladder control is also a symptom of extreme intoxication. The next morning we watched “The Young Poisoner’s Handbook” which on several occasions sent me running to the toilet for more spew-time action. I knew, this is NOT how I want my life to turn out.

10) Another big night at the Uni bar in Toowoomba had been had. It was always worth the trip back home! We had stayed at a mate’s house and in the morning I painted the toilet bowel all sorts of colours before he drove us home. I only prayed his mum had not heard the gurgling and coughing in her small house. On the way home, he was making small talk as I sat there as pale as a zombie, trying desperately to hold on. The God’s of Gag however had different plans. “Pull over man… NOW”. Car door open, head over the road, hurling again. And this was all in the early days of our friendship, where no such line should have ever been crossed. Embarrassment level 10. With me leaning out his sporty car heaving like an old man, I would dare say he was thinking, is this how I want my life to turn out?

A Brief History Of Time: Epic Vomiting Adventures – Part 1

// JRad // November 15th, 2009 // No Comments » // Drunken Debauchery, Jrad's Blog

1) One night I had a small gathering at my parents place in Toowoomba while they were away. We drank heavily. My poison was cheap red wine given my poor student status. Later that night I woke with some serious stomach trouble. Stumbling out of my room and down the hall, I tried to hold it in but couldn’t. The pressure was too extreme and a burgundy liquid explosion erupted from my mouth in all directions. It was everywhere – floor, both walls and even on the ceiling (I kid you not). It was like letting off a paint grenade in the hallway. Then I slipped over in it. Sitting in my boxers in a puddle of my own sick, I got to wondering, is this how I want my life to turn out?

2) We had been out at the local, drinking heavily. Back at college a group of us were sitting in my mate’s room chatting and listening to music. I fell asleep slumped on his bed. Soon I woke, wide eyed and panicky and without saying a word, sprung up and ran out the door and to the closest exit. As I made it out the back entrance of our wing, my rice dinner came up, all over the landing where everyone had to walk. It was like a covering of rice pudding. I should have written “Welcome” in it. In the morning the cleaner was heard complaining about the vomit. I’m sure she was asking herself, is this how I want my life to turn out?

3) Back at college from a night out, I was having a tandem shower with a friend, C, (our bathrooms were co-ed). She was in one, and I was in the other. We were both blind drunk and feeling sick. I convinced her to stick her fingers down her throat as I did the same. We tandem spewed. It was great, but I’m sure C was pondering, is this how I want my life to turn out?

4) I had been drinking for hours with a friend of mine, V. When another one, J, turned up, she only had 20 minutes to catch up before we headed out. Unfortunately we matched her “catch up” drinks. We did six shots in 15 minutes. After several more drinks, V passed out in the club on some couches as I sat wearily next her. Then she puked on the fine leather seating. Time to go. We were sitting in the gutter while J tried to hail a cab away from us so we would actually get picked up. V was puking in the gutter. On the ride home, V and I had the window seats with J in the middle. V and I simultaneously spewed out the windows of the moving cab. I am sure J was sitting there wondering, is this how I want my life to turn out?

5) It was race day and I had been drinking for twelve hours straight. We had basically pub crawled back to college. As I lived in “top flat”, on the third floor of our wing, I invited some others up to continue festivities. And by that I mean, watch me spew off the balcony into the garden below. For entertainment (and vomit catalyst purposes), I filled a cup with milk, red curry paste, juice and milo. Then I drank it. As my body rejected the foul concoction over the rails, surely someone there was contemplating, is this how I want my life to turn out?

Pro/Am

// JRad // May 26th, 2009 // 1 Comment » // Drunken Debauchery, Jrad's Blog, Stories

Living on campus during my University times was nothing short of insane. How I managed to come out with a degree is beyond me.  Over the three years of non-stop partying, I have accumulated a wealth of experiences… some of which I actually remember.  The annual Pro/Am held late in my third year is one event that will always be remembered for such ridiculousness.  As one of the social convenors at my college, I was fortunate enough to be able to organize and help run this particular pub crawl.  The Pro/Am is however, not your ordinary night out. 

The idea of the “competition” is simple.  The first year college students (amateurs) are led by a select few third year students (professionals) to a number of city venues, where inevitable mass consumption of alcohol takes place.  The amateurs are to accrue as many points as possible over the course of the evening, with the winner being the person with the highest tally.  How does one accumulate said points? Easy.  Get loose and go nuts. Do something crazy. Unorthodox.  Spontaneous. Ridiculous. The crazier the act, the more points are awarded.  The pub crawl allows sufficient alcohol consumption to fuel the activities, and gives the participants no excuse for not getting kicked out of the venue, as another one will be waiting nearby. 

1 

We all arrive at the underground Irish pub around 7.30pm. There are families seated at tables, eating dinner.  They are innocent and unsuspecting.  This is mid week – very few beer swelling socialites about so we don’t have to battle crowds, and we can take over the place entirely.   

The amateurs are keen to earn points. The professionals have pens poised. “Skull a beer.  Here’s a point for your effort, I’ll write it on your scorecard. Wow, you have three points already. Well done.”  Little do they know, these scorecards are all but useless, as is winning a single point for any one act of “daring”.  One young go-getter decides to earn more points for skulling a jug of beer. Good effort.  Extra points are added.  Porcelain is showered with regurgitated beer. 

Time has passed and some of the girls, bless their hearts, have decided they want plentiful amounts of points.  Off come their shirts.  On goes the beer. Titty skulling ensues.  Diners look on in amazement.  This is the start to a wonderful night. 

Everyone is drunk or well on their way.  There is a special energy in the air – excitement, suspense, anticipation…   

Given the behaviour of our amateurs, I decide to run ahead to the next venue to warn them of our impending arrival.  I explain that no one is drunk, but we are just doing crazy things for fun. Yup.  Luckily they are expecting us as I had called ahead to secure our placement, and discounted drinks. 

2 

Another Irish bar.  At least they are used to unruly behaviour.  More drinking.  Some of the girls decide they want to do a strip show and tell me.  Being a good host, I can only agree and soon get the manager’s permission for this.  The beauty of mid-week drinking – you get away with so much more. 

Now during my college times, nudie runs were commonplace and I was not unknown for getting naked myself. So whilst the girls are on the raised stage, slowly getting their kits off, Full Monty style, I lose my entire outfit within a few seconds and prance about on stage.  Fun times. If only I was awarding myself points too.  The girls get only down to their underwear.  Lame. 

After the strip show, another young lad decides he too will get naked for accumulation of points.  Good idea.  Or so he thought.  While he is running around doing his thing, some larrikin makes off with his clothes.  Ten minutes later, a few of us are looking for his clothes while he hovers about, slightly worried.  Alas, there is no sign of them. Hmmm. Time goes by – he’s still naked.  I decide to take action.  Onto the microphone. Music stops.  “Everyone. Drew needs his clothes back. We can’t go anywhere else till he gets his clothes back.”  And viola, his clothes turn up.  Nice prank.  Everyone is fully clothed again.  Everything is in order… 

Now by this time everyone is even more willing to earn the big points.  People start physically embracing to up their scores. As a points giver, a professional, I hold a certain power.  To abuse this power would be to abuse my trusted position.  So what to do when I have girls wanting to make out for points?  I hold my integrity and get them to kiss each other instead. Easy. 

Things are starting to get crazy.  A couple of the guys decide to make lollies out of the urinal cakes. Mmm. Chemicals and urine from multiple dudes. Tasty.  Too bad none of the judges bore witness to this act of insanity. No points. Sorry lads. 

Time to move on. 

3 

Things get blurry.  Everyone is totally wasted.  Shenanigans aplenty.  Another ambitious amateur jumps on board the urinal cake sucking band wagon.  This time I witness the glory.  He is sucking on it like a gob stopper.  It burns his lips and mouth but he continues his quest for fresh (?) breath.  I reward him with sufficient points.  Others follow suit. What is wrong with these people? 

 
Everyone is running around, making out with each other, drinking, doing stupid stuff… it’s just too fun. People have points in the thousands marked over their arms.  Scorecards have long been abandoned.  It’s starting to get out of hand and we make a move to the sports bar next door. 

4 

Macking on, particularly girl on girl and drinking are the common themes here.  The amateur who had spent a good minute or two sucking on a toilet cake makes out with five girls in a row soon afterwards.  If only they knew where his tongue had recently been.  I am too wasted and cave under the pressure.  It’s time to abuse my power.  Three way makout.  To be fair, I don’t think I awarded the girls any points.  I am sure the female professionals are not happy with my conduct. But me and my fellow male professionals are too drunk to care.  We are making the most of this situation, as are the willing amateurs.   

5 

The final venue – an English pub. Full looseness is upon us.  Signs are ripped from walls.  Things are getting blurred.  Two amateurs are neck and neck with becoming the night’s victor – both had sucked toilet cakes, had multiple make-outs, gotten naked.  Something needed to tip one of them over the edge and into the winning position.   
 
I find myself in the bathroom with a few amateurs, including one of the potential winners.  We’re standing there, or more likely swaying, and it’s clear he needs to do something worthy of the crown.  A friend proceeds to neck his rum and vomit it back into a glass.  Glass of spew is handed to budding finalist.  He knows what has to be done.  It’s bottoms up and down the hatch.  Full glass. Rum, coke, vomit.  A winning cocktail of alcohol and stomach acid.  He keeps it down and comments it isn’t that bad.  Champion and deserved winner.  I pen in WINNER across his forehead.   

The end of the night is near and people are hailing cabs, leaving a trail of destruction for the bar staff and cleaners.  Some of the first years decide to take a souvenir  – a couple of massive promo mats.  I souvenir one of the three way make-out girls. 

The next morning, the college receives a phone call from the pub wanting the mats back.  Apparently they are worth hundreds of dollars. We return them with apologies, never to be welcomed back again or at least until they forget who we are.