‘Just One More,’ Visiting Your Alma Mater, And A Vegas Bachelor Party Gone Wrong: The Worst Stories From This Weekend

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I’d say nothing could stop me from a wide-open weekend when the weather’s hovering around 60 degrees in mid-February, but I’d be lying. A stomach bug got me and got me good. That being said, my inbox has been overflowing with stories from you, the readers, recounting things that I’m surprised you even remember.

Big ups to all of you. If you have a story of your own, send it my way to will@grandex.co and I’ll throw it in the mix. Scaries love company.

As always, we break some of the following stories down on Touching Base (subscribe on iTunes and SoundCloud). All the episodes can be found below. Proceed with caution.

Alright, let’s get into this week’s crop of stories which can be found unedited in quotes below.

So…wife and I head to our local German Restaurant…aka place we can bring kids that serves drinks. I had two cocktails. Wife had a few glasses of wine and moved on to beer before I left. We ran into a few friends and I decide I’ll be the good husband and take our 3 and 5 year old boys home. She asks to stay for “one more drink”. It’s 7:15. Sure…I’ll get the kids to bed…she will come home a little buzzed…and, well you know the rest.

Fast forward to 10…still no text or call. I reach out and she has moved on to another restaurant. Wine and beer by the time I had left. I 100% know that she loves the gimlet at said next stop.

So of course, even after having the conversation all the time, you NEVER go for the trifecta of wine, beer and liquor. Particularly in that order.

She said “I’ll be home soon”. Fast forward to midnight…her phone is dead…and I reach out to her girlfriend who is with her. All I get back are pictures of them.

I’m pissed at this point…not that she’s out…but I went home figuring I’d get some sleep… not be hungover…yada yada yada.

Now it’s 2am…I’m tired…and worried about how she’s going to get home. 2:15 I receive a call with no coherent words other than “I want my bed”. She has Uber…but can’t figure out how to use it. I tell her to sleep it off on her girlfriends couch.

Fast forward to the next morning…feed the boys, bathe them and then get them ready for basketball games at 10 and 11 (I coach both). She shows up at the game in clothes from night before looking like death. She wreaks of booze and rather then sit with the other parents, she grabs a seat on the floor at the end of the bench. Hat pulled tight over her face.

Funny for me. Saturday scaries for her.

Best part about this is that I now have this in my back pocket for anytime I want to sneak out for a boys night in the future.

Oh, man. You’ve got it made. You could pitch her a bachelor party in Medellin that you have to pay for in cash and she’ll have to let you go. I’d say you have a long leash, but that leash doesn’t even exist anymore.

Some advice, though? Don’t blow this all in one event. Draw it out. I’m talking Sunday morning tee times for a month, sober driver for a few weekends, maybe even a trip scheduled on her. Squeeze it for all its worth.

I had a work trip to Austin last Thursday – Friday. Friday, I had a ticket to one of my favorite jam bands that was coming to Houston, so I was going to lay low Thursday night. My coworker and I end up going out after our work dinner on Thursday till 2am, the hangover Friday was real.

Fast forward to 8pm Friday: coming straight from driving back from Austin, Ubering to House of Blues & chugging wine as this was the only plan my delusional, exhausted ass had to get energy from staying out the night before. After the show ends, my friends and I are on the way to get pizza and I run into some people I just met in the show. I leave my friends (first mistake) to go see more live music with these new people.

I end up talking to this wook (read: dirty hippy) for the entire next show and he asks if I wanna go back to his place (read: he still lives with his parents but doesn’t tell me that) and smoke. I agree (second mistake) and wake up in his parent’s house on a couch downstairs, with the worst hangover I’ve had since college & ask if he can drive me home. He gives me a ride home, where I realize he lived over an hour away from me and I try not to puke the whole time. Couldn’t move all day Saturday & it’s now Monday morning, my eye is mysteriously red and feels like someone is stabbing it – is this what pink eye is? Feeling like hell. My best friends from college are also flying into Austin this Friday & I’m going back to spend the weekend with them. Morals of this story is: never leave your friends getting pizza & don’t trust Houston wooks.

Uh, yeah, you have pink eye. Did you wake up with a crust over it? Pink eye, pink eye, pink eye. Never sleep on a hippie’s couch, that’s day one stuff.

This weekend it was my littles 21st birthday party, so obviously we had to go BIG. we start the night out at her apartment with about 200 Jell-O shots and more bottles of liquor than I can count. We then proceed to the party bus where I bring my half full bottle of Bacardi with me. the bus is probably a 30 minute drive in which I threw up (into a cup) and should have been my first clue that maybe it was time to slow down a bit).

Get to the bars and I realize that I dont have my purse, money, id- nothing. All I have is my bottle of Bacardi in my hand and the bus is gone. I decide I cant waste the bottle, so I shove it down my dress while I wait for someone to pass back an id to me (wait I thought that shit stopped when you turn 21). Walk into the bar with someone elses fake id and a bottle of Bacardi down my dress. Proceed to the bathroom where I chug the bottle. This is where the night gets fuzzy, I some how end up in an ally having sex with a guy ive been seeing for a couple weeks? a month? idk.

we go to a different bar. (How did I get in?) and I know the bartender so they are giving me free drinks. Guess I decide that I need to tip them, but I have no money. I turn around and the guy behind me is holding out money to get the bartenders attention- I proceed to take his money out of his hand, say a couple of incoherent words and throw the $50 bill into the tip jar and leave. Somehow make it to the party bus and back to the girls apartment where im standing outside waiting for an uber when the cops show up asking me a million questions (still dont have my ID) Not sure how I wasnt arrested but ill take it. Honestly this night could have gone wrong at so many points and I have no idea how I made it out alive.

Okay, okay, normally I don’t include college stories but hear me out.

I want to discuss a couple things regarding this story. First of all, am I crazy for thinking that Jell-o shots just don’t get you drunk? It’s like how I can eat a million grapes and never feel full. Ten Jell-o shots? Might as well just be ten Jell-o cups. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.

Second of all, who has sex in an alley and then goes to another bar? Like, how dirty do you feel when you’re hobbling to the next bar and talking to your friends once you get there? Gives me the creeps just thinking about it.

I and a bunch of friends from college went to Lake Tahoe this weekend for a boys’ trip with skiing drinking and gambling on the itinerary (we did invite you guys, Micah responded “tentative”). I make it in Thursday night and lose over half my gambling budget in 20 minutes, which isn’t great one night into a four night trip. I wrongfully assume this is as bad as my luck can get. First full day goes by without any issues, but day two is where my weekend (and the next month of my life) go haywire.

I’m coaching my buddy on how to ski and take him down a tame blue to meet up with our other friends when I decide to get cute and practice my slalom. I catch an edge and wipe out pretty good, and my newbie buddy wipes out right behind me. I feel his ski hit my hand (idiot me wasn’t wearing gloves) and don’t think much of it immediately.

I should probably go ahead and throw a trigger warning here because it’s about to get graphic. As I’m collecting my skis I notice my hand is bleeding, and when I inspect the injury I see a gash on the back of my hand clean through to the tendons. I quickly learn there’s nothing quite as sobering as seeing the inside of your body. Our crash scene looks like a murder scene within seconds, blood all over the snow and my (expensive) ski clothes. I’m starting to lose feeling in my fingers and go into panic mode until ski patrol can come and call for a sled. End up having to do the ride of shame all the way down the run, back up to the top, and down the other side of the mountain to get to the clinic. Had to close my eyes to escape the shameful looks of literally everyone on the mountain. The clinic is full of “nurses” that are younger than I am and a spaced out physician so I’m sweating thinking about having some 20 year old girl named “River” stitch my hand up. That’s when I realize I can’t straighten my index finger and the nurses tell me I severed two tendons in the crash and need surgery immediately. I’ve never had surgery before so this news makes me almost pass out from nerves. This all on top of realizing I lost my phone on the mountain during the experience.

Luckily the surgeon was on call that day, so they got me in quickly. Not so luckily, they only had to do local anesthetic so not only did I get rushed into my first surgical experience without time to mentally prepare myself, but I had to be awake throughout the process as well. The feeling of having your tendons getting pulled through your hand is one that’ll haunt me for years. Surgeon did a good job though and patched me up, although I feel for the uber driver who had to drive me back to the hotel in all of bloody ski gear.

Now I’m facing a twelve hour travel day back home with an indisposed hand and on three hours of sleep (stupidly decided to celebrate winning back my gambling money last night by going to a club and drinking more until 3 am with a 6 am shuttle to catch). I’m here sweating thinking about how I’m gonna function with just one hand for the next month and how steep that hospital bill is gonna be.

Got my phone back though. Wear gloves on the slopes, kids.

[Frasier Crane voice.]

Oh, dear God.

[End Frasier Crane voice.]

Luckily, we got an email from someone else who was on the trip as well.

On a plane awaiting takeoff from Reno back home to LA. Blacked out very hard last night because that’s what you do with your college friends when you all get together in Tahoe then go up $2500 at the blackjack table. I’ve probably got a collective 15 hours of sleep the last 4 days. I left my jacket under the craps table last night and had to track it down with the casino Lost and found. I got it back but when collecting I’m asked “so, anything in the pockets?” And yes there we condoms in it so I explain that. The look on the dudes face was one of confusion and judgement. I was visibly hungover as well which probably added to this. Why do I feel embarrassed about this.

I have a sprained finger and sore ribs after a collision with a friend on the Hill, but this is mild compared to my other buddy got two tendons in his hand lacerated and required surgery Saturday afternoon. My second-hand (pun very much intended) scaries are very high. Dude can’t type with his right hand or even put on normal sleeves because the cast is so big.

This is getting harder and harder to type because my hangover shakes are worsening somehow.

I’ll be home by 10pm probably so not miserably late but also way later than I want. It was worth the fresh tracks this morning though. Remember, you’re gonna go through life and one of two things is gonna happen; you’re gonna shred or you’re gonna be shredded, which one do you want? I know my answer and I’m living with it for better or worse.

Another 3 day weekend is in the cards starting Friday, hopefully these next 4 days are enough to recover.

These fuckin’ guys. Shred or be shredded. Love it.

Just wanted to say I’m an avid PGP reader and I love your columns. I think you are one of my favorite writers on here.

Anyway, I’ll get right to it. I don’t want to use exact names in this so I’ll call my best friend “Sally” for the sake of the story.

This past weekend me and my best friend went back to my alma mater (yes I know you say don’t go back but we did). I heard from some of my younger friends who still go there that one of my favorite frats from a past life was having a huge “around the world” themed party. I go dressed as an “American” (very original) and I force Sally to dress in this ridiculous Chinese person costume, rice hat and all. I looked like a typical girl going to a frat house while she did not look cute AT ALL, but she definitely made up for it because the costume was funny. We decide to drink an entire bottle of hornitos tequila before to pregame. We were honestly feeling fine and remember taking pictures beforehand, but when we get to the party is when all recollection is lost. The last thing I remember is having one of the frat guys take our picture in front of a huge world poster that they had painted.

I wake up the next morning in my bed fully clothed from the night before. I didn’t feel too bad, but Sally was missing. I check my phone and there were no calls or texts, and when I tried to call her phone was off. I figured maybe she had stayed at the frat house or something and would eventually make it back, even though she wasn’t familiar with the area and probably had no clue where she was.

I then get a call from a random number- I answer it and it’s Sally, bawling crying I can barely understand her. She gives me the address of where she is, and when I arrive (note: this is about 2 miles away from the frat house in the middle of nowhere) I see her standing outside this random house, rice hat gone, no shoes, her face looked like she had tried to go blackface because of her mascara everywhere, and huge, I mean HUGE scratches ALL over her body. Not like scratches from a person, it looked like she had climbed through the amazon rainforest or something. She was crying still but I was laughing so hard I felt so bad. Basically, she doesn’t remember anything except the ONE memory of climbing through weeds and bushes (hence the scratches all over her body). She woke up on a couch to a dad, a mom, and 2 little kids staring at her asking who she is and what she’s doing in their living room. They said she probably broke in through their back door because they always leave it unlocked. So basically Sally somehow wandered 2 miles away from the frat house, climbed through bushes and weeds to break into this random family’s home to crash on their couch, and then since she didn’t have her phone she had to call HER MOM from this dad’s phone to get my phone number. It was probably the funniest thing I had ever heard or experienced.

On the bright side: some of the frat guys found Sally’s phone at the frat house and charged it and then called me back. Nice guys. Still didn’t find her shoes or the rice hat though

Nevermind her story, how about her saying she “thinks” she’s “one of” her favorite writers on the site? Like, there aren’t that many writers so she’s pretty much putting me top fifteen. Meh, I guess I’ll take it.

But anyway, shouts to Sally. As someone who once slept in someone else’s Tahoe who I thought was my friend’s Tahoe (another story for another day), I feel her pain. That being said, her costume sounds high-key racist as hell.

Long time reader, first time writing in. Big fan though.

So this actually happened on New Years, but I am just now writing it after reading this past weeks submissions.

I fly up to Chicago on New Year’s Eve to hangout with some buddies. When I land, by buddy John takes me to Buona Beef. Really good eats right there. John then takes me to his parents house where I am staying since he is still school. His parents drive his sister and I downtown for the night since he isn’t 21.

They drop me off early for a pregame, three hours in fact, because they have plans. So I decide to find the nearest bar and start drinking. I get a couple beers deep and in walk a group of five women in their early thirties. There just so happen to be five seats next to me so they sit down. At one point one of them starts talking to me and starts telling me her life story. I find out that shes the only one married, but hates her husband. We end up exchanging numbers and start texting since I leave to go to the pregame.

I go to a pregame with a bunch of friends and some older alumni and we all get trashed before we get to the bar. Once at the bar, three of the couples at the pregame are so gone, they all have to leave before midnight because they are gone. At this point, I only know Jack, the guy who threw the pregame. Jack then asked if I need to crash at his place and I say yes since I was supposed to go with one of the couples, but wasn’t going to leave before midnight. I text John saying that I am staying with Jack and give him the address.

Then, the married women, lets call her Emily, and I are still talking and hitting it off, so I invite her and her friends to the bar we were at. This bar was a $50 cover open bar, so everyone is throwing back drinks like there is no tomorrow. Emily introduces me to her friend, lets call her Stacy, and we hit it off. Stacy and I end up kissing at midnight and not long after that, Emily walks up and starts making out with me in front of Stacy. I was in fear a cat fight was about to break out, but it was the complete opposite. They want to leave and go back to Stacy’s and I am all about it and leave with them and forget to tell anyone I left. Jack calls me while we are in the Uber and I tell him I left with these two women and he wishes me well.

We get to Stacy’s fancy downtown apartment and I am thinking that this is too good to be true. Wrong. After a few more drinks, Emily joins us on the couch in what turns into threesome. We went twice that night and go to bed around 4.

I wake up to a call from John saying that he and his mom are on their way to come pick me up. Luckily I grab everything and Uber back to Jack’s where they dropped me off before they got there. You would think the story ends there, but wait.

I get into the car and we go to pick up his sister and her friend somewhere else in downtown. At this point the full effects of a hangover are kicking in and within five minutes of being in the car I feel like I am going to yak. Their mom finally stops at a red light and I am fumbling with the door, because my mouth is full of this shit and I am not going to throw up in her car. I get out and get to sidewalk and let everything out. They are all laughing at me as I get everything out and rightfully so.

After that, I look up and I shit you not, Emily is walking out of Stacy’s apartment building to her husband picking her up. I just so happen to throw up right behind his car. She says my name out loud and things got really awkward. I clean up the best I can after saying hi and get back in the car. The entire ride back to their house, which was like an hour, I feel like death and I am being asked all these questions about how my night was and what I did. Managed to dodge a bullet there.

Then this past weekend, Emily, who I thought I would never hear from again texts me to tell me shes getting a divorce and wants me to come visit her in Chicago soon. Don’t know when I’ll be back in Chicago or if I should go visit her?

Uhhhhhhh, what? This is called “Worse Weekends Than You,” and that weekend sounds awesome. Sure, you risked getting your ass kicked by a cougar’s husband. And yeah, you threw up behind said-husband’s car. But have mercy. Ride this wave until you hit the shore. Emily all day and twice on Sundays.

The Mrs. and I are mid-thrities parents of two small children who went on a beach vacation sans-children to Mexico. In our first real beach day she kills a bottle of wine, I kill a growler of 9.5% beer while eating only a little bit of meat and cheese for lunch in the early afternoon. We decided to leave the beach and head to the pool bar with a healthy buzz already going for happy hour around 3pm.

Get to the pool bar and order up some mango margaritas. Thinking they’re of course too sweet we decide to add a bit more tequila to each of ours. This continues for another 2-3 margaritas as we make pool bar friends with two late twenties couples. Happy hour ends and our new friends decide shots are a good idea and we continue to partake. At some point in time my wife takes off her sunglasses and her eyes are completely glassed over. I tell her its probably a good idea if she heads up to the room. I of course feel as if I can stay and continue crushing margaritas and shots with our new friends.

At some point in time (I dont know when) I decide its time for me to head up. The pool water had to have been holding me up. Somehow I remember falling over repeatedly trying to get all our beach bags/coolers back together. At one point I remember holding on to a beach umbrella giving myself a pep talk that I can make it back to our room. I somehow get back upstairs to our room, but cant find my hotel key if my life depends on it. I start banging on the door and yelling assuming my wife has passed out. As I’m doing this I look down the hall and see 2 small local security guards and 2 lifeguards. I try telling them in Spanish my wife is asleep, but I think all that comes out is “Mi Amoorreeee”. I’m 6’7″ – I’m assuming they thought it would take 4 ppl to carry me if I fell over again. Finally, my wife is actually walking down the hall having gone to look for me and says, “Why are you covered in sand!?” Get inside, end up throwing up twice and pass out at 7pm. Wake up at 3am, find my sand covered shirt and swimsuit in the shower and am wide awake. Didnt really get yelled at by my wife as we both were complete disasters. I really hope other parents have had this happen when freed from the responsibility of their small children for a few days.

Moral of the story, 35 isnt the new 25. Also, eat a real lunch.

The sun’ll get ya. One moment you’re sitting at a poolside bar thinking about the tableside guacamole you’re going to eat that night, the next moment you’re trying to figure out which room at the resort your wife is passed out in.

Real talk, though? This sounded fun as hell.

I should have taken running into my ex at the airport as the bad omen that it was upon my weekend, but nothing could stop me from enjoying a bachelor party in Las Vegas. This was the only thing I’d looked forward to in a long time: getting my bros away from their girlfriends to get shithoused, away from responsibility, my bosses’ dad jokes, and that nagging bitch Connie at the front desk who just can’t seem to read her emails before bothering me. I’d be damned if I let her steal this weekend from me too like she had a year of my life.

Once everyone arrived Friday morning, drinks began to fuel conversation about what the weekend would hold, only to reveal that the best man had planned close to nothing. “I figured we’d just wing it,” he said, as I contemplated breaking my beer bottle over his empty skull. Winging it has its place. A bachelor party in Vegas is not it. This lead to reveal that none of the guys not from high school had accounts with Uber, Lyft, or Venmo. I was fucking mind-blown to discover they even owned iPhones, and suggested they use them to Google things that would salvage the weekend.

As we prepped for dinner that at the Mesa Grill, a 4-star Bobby Flay restaurant inside of Caesar’s Palace, the distinction between groups became less of who went to high school together and more of who had made something of themselves and who hadn’t. My buddies and I all looked dapper enough, like we had decent father-figures and had read GQ while taking a shit at least once in our lives. The others however were the walking representations of a high-school homecoming dance meeting the Kohl’s clearance rack. I had to yell at one guy twice to change out of cargo shorts. Social ineptitude was further proven at the restaurant where the squad still living in 2009 all ordered appetizers as their entrée, and I could literally feel the waiter’s condescension transcend over the table.

Per the best man’s failure, we had no after-dinner plans, and so he proposed the strip club. I found it ironic of him to piss away money on women he has no shot with yet order the calamari instead of the salmon, but the groom was all for it. They must not know how strip clubs work, as it turned out they did indeed not have the money for private dances either, not even for the groom, which led to further embarrassment from strippers giving us all the “get off my lawn” look, since we were now associated with cheapskates. Unfortunately, my culture’s response to shame isn’t seppuku, and so had to continue on with these squids for another day and a half. Realizing this, we tried to get roaring drunk as a way to mentally escape, only to be disappointed by the incredibly high alcohol tolerances the professional world had given us.

I’ve never been so disappointed to wake up without a hangover. For Saturday and the rest of the trip, the large group naturally split. The weekend carried on without any shows or gun shooting, golf time, or scenic tours. As I knew it would, “winging it” broke down to tame drinking and gambling, the bare minimum of what Vegas has to offer, and few of us truly got what we wanted from the weekend. Should I be someone’s best man someday, I’ll be following this past weekend as a guide for exactly what not to do.

This just depressed me. I’ve never been to Vegas (this is an intentional decision) but I know enough about Vegas to acknowledge that this crew sucked.

Moral of the story? Always contact the best man ahead of time and make sure he has it under control. Sure, you may come off as a dick to him, but at least the groom won’t be sitting bored at a Vegas strip club. .

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Will

Will (Twitter / Instagram) is the host of The Sunday Scaries Podcast.

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