That Time I Got Thrown Up Upon

A few weekends back we had a Chicago area bachelor party for a former roommate of mine who's formal bachelor party was a camping in the cold excursion (all Chicagoans took a pass on that one).  Being a long time drinking resident of the area, he asked me to be the point man on planning.  I said I could probably find a super cheap route where we could pay $15 to drink all we want for a few hours, to which he said, "I don't want to do an all-you-can-drink because that encourages binge drinking.  I really don't party much anymore."  That's actually what he said . . .

So he and all the guys arrive at my apartment, we're sipping some beers, and it was kind of sweet how Former Roomie was gushing over his bride to be, right down to the fact that he loved her big boobs.  He proceeded to show us a (fully clothed) picture.  Yup.  Big ones.  Then he makes an announcement: "Listen, guys.  No shots tonight.  I'm serious."  I had planned on doing maybe just one as a celebratory thing, but zero is just fine too.

Former Roomie said that inviting anyone was cool so Night Train met us out.  I forgot that Night Train orders shots nonstop so before I could think to tell him about the rule for the night, Night Train saddles over to us with a tray full of one ounce booze cups known as shots.  Former Roomie didn't even hesitate going against his own rule and immediately knocked down the shot of Jameson, or some other brown, vile liquid, and it wouldn't be his last of the night . . .

Oh yes, he did have one other rule: We had to end up at Liars Club before the end of the night.  This is a rule I liked even better than the first because, as long time readers will know, this is my favorite place on earth.  And this was the perfect night at Liars: Everyone was dancing, the music transitioned perfectly between Daft Punk and Motorhead, and all of us were having a ball.  Except Former Roomie who said that what he really wanted to do is go somewhere with a jukebox to use a phone application that he has to pick songs.  Despite the fact that my other good friend, James Douglas Morrison, and myself were dancing our faces off, we decided to do the right thing and accompany Former Roomie and his cousin to an after hours bar with a jukebox to play with.

Two more robots called in sick.

Former Roomie selects his songs, and while I was excited to hear a live version of "Roadhouse Blues," when I heard a different version of the same song back-to-back, I should have known that he had become powerfully drunk.  Suddenly, I look across the table at him, and his eyes are wide, he looks scared, and while looking right in my eyes, he spits what I thought was some beer onto the table.  I thought this was a joke until I saw that there were in fact some chunks on the table.  As well as on my shirt.  James Douglas Morrison and I just headed for the exits without saying a word to anyone, even each other, as we went in cabs to go our separate ways.

The next day I asked James Douglas what in the hell that was all about, and he texted back, "I saw puke come across the table, and I was worried I would be next, so I got outa' there like shit through a Goose Gossage."  He has a way with words, that guy . . .

Goose: "Whelp, that's a rap on the evening, gentlemen."

I got another text from Former Roomie, and he said, "Sorry I had to leave suddenly.  It was a long night.  hahaha.  Did you stay much longer after I left?"  Well, odds are if he doesn't remember that we left before him, he probably doesn't remember puking on me, and best to just keep it that way.  No need to make the guy feel bad about anything on his bachelor party.  Just head on back out of state, nuzzle in those big boobs, and go back to saying not to shot(s).