About a couple weeks before Christmas every year SushiBar would have a Christmas party for their employees, friends, and family. Now I would have had an invite since I was employee there, but I had recently had an argument with one of the bartenders. There were phrases from both sides including “I’ll kick your fucking ass” and “What’s your fucking problem?” The clincher that caused my dilemma was when I said, “Go ahead and take a free shot so that I don’t go to jail for beating the shit outta you.” Apparently talking shit to look tough in front of your girlfriend (ClemsonGirl) is fine until shit gets real. Instead of either acting smart and apologizing or being a man and actually taking a swing (not smart) he instead took the pussy/douchebag option and went to his older brother who happened to his bar manager and had me fired. Hence my dilemma. In the time from when I got fired to when the party was suppose to be the bartenders came up with a compromise, I’d get an invite to the Christmas Party on the promise that I wouldn’t fuck up DouchebagBartender/ClemsonGirl’s boyfriend. And there would be an open bar. I was sold.
On the night of the party me and HLaw decided to pregame by his place and rent a limo for the night since we both knew that driving home wasn’t going to be in the books. Did I mention it was an open bar? This was basically the plan as far as I was concerned:
1. Clean out the bar of Grey Goose (did I mention it was an open bar with top shelf liquor?)
2. See what happens or what fat chick took me home…
3. Pray for the best or a hot chick
Basically as long as I didn’t wake in jail cell next to crackheads I would consider the night a success.
The limo arrived around 9 and we hopped in the limo post haste. On the way there we shot the shit with the driver who was one of Hunter’s buddies. I thought about trying to hit on her but figured that enough bad decisions would begin in the next 5 minutes and that I needed to save myself for that.
We arrive at SushiBar, hop out of the limo, pay Hunter’s buddy and walk in to make our entrance. Brett is working and he is not happy. You see Brett having to work, in a suit, at an open bar party is the equivalent of chaperoning an orgy. The fun is right in your face just nagging you and mocking how much life is sucking for you at this point. Brett is my buddy, one of my best friends, so what did I do? Did I do the decent friend thing and offer him a shot or buy him a beer? Did I tell him he only has to deal with drunken assholes for a few more hours. If you think any of these then please send your phone number to firstname.lastname@example.org so I can call you and ask you if it says gullible on the ceiling.
So what did I do?
I walked up to the bar ordered three grey goose and tonics, downed them back to back, and didn’t leave a tip in the tip jar. Having a tip jar at an open bar makes as much sense as a hooker demanding monogamy. This pattern continued for about half an hour before it caught up with me.
REAL FUCKING QUICK………………
Chugging grey goose like it was going out of style seemed like it was a great idea in theory but you know grey is still, you know, alcohol. I started feeling queezy and about to vomit so I sat down to catch my breath. My last clear memory.
4 hours later…..
I am confused. Very confused. The small Chinese dude that we all called the Mag-Lite Ninja has an even more confused look. I feel cold steel on my back and look up and see a vent, the type of vent that is used for hibachi tables. I realize that I passed out on a hibachi table. I also have what looks and, more importantly, smells like vomit all over my sleeves. I try to trace my steps but the feeling of nausea overwhelms me and I promptly head towards the bathroom before I cover the samurai statue in my stomach juice. I make it to the stall and am throwing up a whitish liquid with chunks of tuna and sticky rice in it. It kind of looks like coconut milk, and smells like regret and vodka. And it kept coming, like a river of milky, chunky fluid and bad decisions. And it wouldn’t stop.
15 minutes later….
After emptying my stomach contents of all the fun and vodka I had earlier, I decided to that I needed to head home.
I didn’t have my car and obviously since it was 4 in the morning at this point the limo driver probably figured I had found another way home. So let’s take a look at the situation:
1. I don’t have a car because I trying to do the responsible thing and not drink and drive (fuck you M.A.D.)
2. I don’t have money for a cab since I went below the amount necessary to pay for a cab tipping out HLaw’s buddy
3. It FUCKING cold outside
I walked down Market Street before I gave up on that being a good idea and decided to make a phone call. Now who of all people would I call at 4 in the morning to come pick up my drunken vomit covered ass that would actually pick up my drunken vomit covered ass?
Frank: “Hey Dad.”
YEA, I called my dad (Papa Frank) to come pick me up on Market St, he lives in Mt. Pleasant, and take me home. This might have been the most embarrassing moment of my life. PapaFrank groggily (and grumpily) agrees and 20 minutes later he comes pulling up to see my drunken vomit covered ass sitting at the steps by CoyoteUglyBar.
I hopped in the tow truck and don’t remember anything of the ride home….
The following night I called Brett and asked what happened.
Brett: “YOU EMBARRASSED AND SHAMED YOURSELF.”
Keep in mind this is coming from Brett “Fucking” Baskin. After pleading with him to tell me he finally coughed up the beans. Apparently after chugging those grey goose and vodkas and sitting down by the front door I started vomiting profusely in the trash can by the front door. It wasn’t just getting in the trashcan, It was also getting on my hands and sleeves. As people were walking into the party, this was a formal party by the way, they were greeted to the site of my vomiting into said trashcan with a field goal percentage that would only make the Cleveland Cavaliers (post-lebron) jealous. Some supposed friends saw me and since they were like nice people or something, they wanted to come shake my vomit covered hands to which they obliged. Brett didn’t on their responses but I can easily assume it wasn’t one of satisfaction.
It didn’t stop there. Apparently I wanted to fight another guy who I had never met before. My reason?
He had a cowboy hat on. That was my sole reason as I was quoted shouting:
Frank: “IF YOU WANT TO WEAR A COWBOY HAT THEN GO BACK TO FUCKING TEXAS!!!!!!!!”
Brett didn’t elaborate on what followed but since I didn’t wake up with any black eyes, I’m going to assume that Mr. Cowboy Hat wasn’t exactly the John Wayne-type and I was justified in what I said. Seriously, if you wear a cowboy hat you better be able to ride a horse and fire a revolver. I’m not the best at either, THAT’S WHY I DON’T WEAR COWBOY HATS!!!!! Especially to Xmas parties.
Brett then goes on to tell me that after I get done with my Jerry Springeresque temper tantrum I went to the back by the Hibachi tables and promptly passed out which is where my consciousness comes back into the story. What did I learn about this? That while open bars mean free liquor, at the same time free liquor comes at a price. The price being for this story being dignity ya’ll laughing it up. I laugh about it too now in hindsight.