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The Night of a Thousand Mistakes: My First Awful Postgrad Hangover

I was pretty responsible for the most part during my first couple of years after college, which is to say that I rarely blacked out on weeknights. My liver had taken its toll in college and I decided to give the old boy a series of well-deserved vacations. I also got a pretty sweet gig out of college that I didn’t want to screw up, working for a professional sports team.

It’s an industry that most people view as fun and glamorous, but it’s actually an industry of 60-hour workweeks, long weekend hours and pay that sometimes resembles that of a babysitter. Whatever, to me it was all worth it to hang out with professional athletes and work a job that hundreds of thousands of guys my age would kill to have, despite being paid slightly more than a part-time donkey show performer (probably the donkey).

After a particularly stressful few days, I decided to let off some steam at my weekly happy hour with a couple of my college buddies. We hit an upscale bar with trendy drinks and expensive appetizers that we could barely afford. Normally we kept our drinking pretty subdued during the week, savings ourselves for the weekend. After a few cocktails, one of my buddies had to skip out for an early meeting, but myself and my other friend (we’ll call him “Jay”) decided to stay out a little later, which was about as good of an idea as it sounded. We polished off a few more scotches, and around 9pm and were ready for a night on the town. I had pretty much forgotten that I had to be at work in a little over 11 hours and would likely be working a 15-hour day, as there was a game the next night.

There we sat, downing an entire bottle of Dewar’s between the two of us. Bored with our dark, sexy, overpriced surroundings, we checked Facebook and Twitter to see what else was going on that night. Living in a large metro area, we were greeted with several options to continue our campaign of debauchery, finally deciding on going to an Avicii concert at an old theater downtown. We hit the streets in search of a cab and made our way there, showing up a few minutes before the concert, and shelling out a hundred bucks each for tickets.

We walked into the venue looking like two of the biggest narcs ever, me in a suit and dress shirt and Jay in his corporate casual attire, while everyone else was in white tee shirts with glow sticks all over their bodies. I was so shitfaced I didn’t even care, dancing around in my brand new suit from Jos. A. Bank. I think all the young go-hards thought it was a joke, which made it all the more fun. I blacked out for a good two hours and before I knew it, the concert hall was emptying and we met a couple of girls who were going to a nearby bar. We hopped in a cab with the both of them, and before we knew it we were grinding it out with a couple of college girls who probably didn’t have to wake up before noon the next day. We racked up another hundred-dollar tab on shots and drinks for the girls.

Soon, the bar was closing and the bouncers were ushering me out. I stood in the cold, looking for a cab and taking inventory of the situation. Wallet and keys: check. Phone: dead. Credit cards: still in the bar that I was just kicked out of. Girls: nowhere to be found. Time: 3am. My house: A good five miles away.

Drunken panic set in. Jay was gone, probably with the girls. My phone was dead. I had no access to my bank account, which was likely bleeding to death due to my inebriated decision-making. My friend who left earlier had an apartment nearby, so I started walking. Twenty minutes later I stumbled upon his front door and started banging, hoping someone would wake up. His roommate answered the door, looking like he wanted to murder me right there on the spot, leaving my corpse to be butt-rammed by a gaggle of hobos.

Much to my delight, he let me in and I crashed on the couch. Two hours later, my alarm was blasting in my ear at 6am. My brain was about to explode out of my forehead and reach down my throat to pull my stomach out of my body. I grabbed a Gatorade out of the fridge and took stock of the situation. No one was awake yet. Luckily, my car was only a couple of blocks away, so I hit the bricks running, got to my car and busted my ass back home. Shower, beer shits and a quick shave, I was ready to go. One problem. My suit was at the cleaners, my other suits were in a wrinkled pile in the corner of my room, and I didn’t have time to iron one out. Plus, I’m pretty sure all of them had some sort of stain left over from a happy hour earlier in the week, and my suit from the night before looked like it spent the night being used as a bar rag.

I hit the road again to the dry cleaners, which of course wasn’t open yet. I was a good 20 minutes away from the office and had to be at work in 15 minutes. Another round of beer shits was ready to explode out of me as I sat in my car waiting for the cleaners to open and my drunk-hungover state to subside enough for me to call my boss and explain that I’d be late.

I called him and explained that the cleaners didn’t have my suit ready in time and that I would be a little late. Pleading with him to be merciful, I could sense my words slurring a bit. He paused, and then laughed. “Get your degenerate-ass to work. Hurry up.” It was the most relieving sentence anyone had ever said to me.

Finally, the cleaners opened and I screamed at them for no reason whatsoever, which only made the hangover worse. After heaving a few nonsensical insults about their operating hours and explaining to them how “this is America”, I fled the scene with what I assumed to be Chinese swear words being heaved at me from every direction.

 

I got to work nearly an hour and a half late, banged out my work for the morning, had a second round of beer shits, skipped lunch and went in search of a spot to nap a few hours later, but my hangover was so debilitating, that I couldn’t even fall sleep in a shit-smelling auxiliary locker room in the bowels of the arena.

What I hadn’t realized is that some sort of European gymnast/contortionist was scheduled to perform during intermission and had been assigned to the glorified toilet that I was currently napping in. I drifted in and out of sleep for a couple of hours, finally passing out for 30 minutes or so and was soon awoken by said gymnast entering the room. I was terrified. A partition separated the couch I had been sleeping on to the forward area of the locker room. The lady began undressing and getting ready for her act.

The appropriate time to apologize for being in her room had come and gone. I was frozen in terror as an all too familiar feeling of an unprecedented third round of beer shits coming on. The combination of last night’s alcohol intake and that morning’s coffee intake was proving to be too much for my large intestine. I was just a few feet from this gorgeous woman undressing and a few steps away from a toilet that was just begging to be defiled.

My body convulsed as I prayed she would leave the room, allowing me to dart into one of the adjoining locker rooms to relieve my tortured bowels. The time never came and I had no choice. I leapt towards the toilet and unleashed a loud, painful stream of toxic smelling waste into the toilet. She screamed in terror and fled the room as I had turned into a chocolate faucet, dumping what felt like my entire intestinal tract into the lone toilet in the room. My back porch was toast. My entire body quaked with every stream of whatever-the-hell was coming out of me. I sat there on a throne of shame, wondering what awaited me outside of the room. I envisioned the GM of the team glaring at me, firing me on the spot; a career of promise in the professional sports industry ruined by diarrhea.

I rose to my feet and headed out of the room to meet my fate. I opened the door and no one was around. The woman was gone and I was alone in the bowels of the arena. I heard the jingling of a security guard running towards me.

“Hey, did you see anyone leave that locker room? Sortina said someone broke into her locker room.”

“Yeah…uh…I heard screaming and ran over, but I didn’t see anyone.”

“Alright man. Keep an eye out.”

He didn’t even suspect me. I saw the terrified gymnast around the next corner, explained I was with “team personnel” and apologized for the “security breach”. She nodded and thanked me for my help, without even suspecting me.

I got on the elevator back to my office and threw my hands up in the air in joy of escaping what should’ve been the most embarrassing moment of my adult life. It’s not every day you scare the hell out of an immigrant with a violent BM. No one asked any questions and I went about the rest of my day, battling my still-debilitating hangover.

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TheChampionsTour

TheChampionsTour (@ChampsTourTFM) is a contributing writer for Post Grad Problems, Rowdy Gentleman, and Total Frat Move .

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