I don’t
know if I’m just still in the holiday spirit (I’m not) or if I’m just using
this as a cheap way to post an update (I am), but I think I’ll go ahead and
share another story about Thanksgiving from a few years ago. I was actually reminded of this story at a
holiday get-together this year and felt it would be a good addition to my
growing catalogue of bad decisions that I’ve posted here.
This story takes place several
years ago when I was still living with my dad; he lived upstairs in the house
and I had the basement to myself. There
was a refrigerator in the basement that I generally kept stocked with a lot of
soda and beer, and very little of anything else. Well, one particular November my dad asked
me to clean out the fridge because we would be having the family over to our
place for Thanksgiving and he wanted to make sure we had plenty of fridge space
for all the food. I took “clean the
fridge” as “drink every beer in the fridge,” promptly called 2 friends over (we’ll
call them LP & LG because they have the same name and it would be
confusing) and declared it open season on beer.
There were 3 partially finished
30-packs (because every time we wanted to drink, instead of checking the fridge
we just immediately bought a new one) and an absurd amount of orphaned craft
beers from various 6-packs. None of us
are sure of exactly how many beers were in that refrigerator, but our best
guesses all leave it somewhere between 80 and 100.
The
three of us started drinking around 7 pm, extremely confident in our ability to
finish every last beer in the fridge.
The night consisted of the typical drunken activities: cards, music,
video games, high fives and overly deep discussions (all of which were growing
increasingly disorganized and difficult).
For the most part, we were alternating between the light beers in the
30-packs and the heavier craft beers because we thought that was a good
strategy for tackling the situation (there was literally no reasoning behind
this). Really though, nothing
particularly important happened during most of the night (or if it did, we
can’t remember).
About 5
a.m. we were still powering our way through the, now mostly empty, fridge. We heard my dad leave for work and decided
that the best thing we could possibly do was go upstairs and start cooking
breakfast for our irresponsibly beer-laden stomachs. After
making it to the top of the stairs, LG decided he needed a rest and promptly
sprawled out on the kitchen floor for a nap.
LP and I proceeded to dig through the upstairs refrigerator for every
bit of breakfast food we could find and carry with one hand (since our other
hands were still holding beers). What we
settled on was a carton of eggs, an entire bag of hash browns and a package of
bratwurst (because we couldn’t find any bacon or sausage and sometimes you just
have to call an audible).
I
cooked this feast with exactly as much precision as you would expect from
someone who had been drinking for 10 hours.
Meanwhile, LG snoozed on the floor and LP ran up and down the stairs
fetching beers for the both of us. With
breakfast cooked to varying degrees of done-ness (nobody got food poisoning, so
success), we woke up LG and the 3 of us sat down at the table to enjoy our
meal, which we washed down with the last remaining beers. I distinctly remember that my breakfast beer
was a Schlafly Christmas Ale, LP’s was a Schlafly Pumpkin Ale and LG’s was a
Jack’s Pumpkin Spice Ale (don’t ask me how the hell I remember this). With full bellies and a questionable sense
of accomplishment, we gave a toast in honor of ourselves and clinked our
bottles together before finishing the last drops of beer; mission accomplished.
At
this, LG stood up from the table, declared “I’ll be right back” and walked out
the door to the garage. LP and I watched
through the window as LG then exited through the patio, walked across the
backyard and disappeared around the side of the house. We hear a door slam followed by the sound of
a car starting up and driving off (if there are any impressionable youths
reading this, DO NOT DO THIS). After
calling LG’s cell phone several times with no answer, we decided that gravity
was getting increasingly difficult to overcome and therefore we should just go
downstairs, seek out places to pass out and prepare ourselves for what were sure
to be the kinds of hangovers that would be written down in the annals of
history; legends to be passed down through the generations as cautionary tales
to children.
Unfortunately,
as we wearily descended the stairs we caught sight of an obstacle that would
delay the sweet, alcohol-induced slumber: an unopened Schlafly Raspberry
Hefeweizen sitting on my desk. Ordinarily,
a bonus beer would be a welcome sight; however we were in absolutely no
condition to imbibe another. That
didn’t stop us, though. Reasoning to ourselves
that we had come so far; that only one beer stood between us glory; that if we
didn’t finish this last beer we would be failures, we decided to split this
final, warm beer for the sake of our legacy.
Drinking this warm, fruity beer was rough but we both took turns gagging
it down, too stubborn to let the beer win.
We were victorious, but it took a toll on us. I had never in my life seen LP vomit before
this, but as soon as the beer was finished he collapsed on the floor and began
desperately hugging my trash can, heaving pitifully into it. Once he was done, he looked up at me
cheerfully and exclaimed, “I feel so much better. I want to puke all the time.”
We
later found out that LG had left to go to work, which seems like the worst
thing to do in that situation. Also,
it’s worth noting that I’ve never seen LP puke again since that day. My dad also never asked me to clean out the
fridge again.
-Ryan
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