Veishea ’08: Episode 2.

5 Feb

I awoke on Saturday morning muddier than a Jeep Wrangler and with more bruises than Kid Rock’s girlfriend. My shins felt as though I had been assaulted by a dwarf, and my knees were swollen as a chubby. I looked good. I looked real good. I stumbled out into the hall. Dane was slumbering in front of the bathroom door in the hallway. Zach was covered in post-it pads. Just outside the apartment door, I find my sopping wet, muddy ass jeans that would make a construction worker’s daily attire look like Versace, two disease-ridden tennis shoes and a pair of dirt-clad socks stinking it up in the hallway. Mine. Must have been a good night.

People being to stir. By “people” I mean the six hundred random folks that for one reason or another ended up crashing at Katie’s apartment, littering the floors and snoozing in every nook and cranny of space available to them. I decided I should bathe before I start creating dust storms like Pig Pen, seeing as my ankles, arms and legs were caked in mud from the night previous. Everyone eventually showers and we decide to go to McDonald’s, which as an aside was packed like a Trolly in Chinatown. It was absurd.

We stuff ourselves like a Build-A-Bear and return home to nap in preparation for the abomination that would be Saturday evening. Katie still had a headache from the night before, and asked, “Will it be okay if I take 4 Aspirin?”

Cole replies, “Katie, I’ve taken 6 Aspirin and 4 Valium in the past 12 hours. I think you’ll be okay.”

The night began at 4:00 p.m. with beer bongs all around. Cole announces that he is taking his Advil with his shot. I look over to see his 2 pills IN his shot of vodka. Efficiency is always key. I made myself a nice round of mixed drinks and started gulping them down. Kelli and I soon decided that we should compile a list of rules that would serve to get everybody completely shit-farmed, so she busted out the paper and colored markers. The rules ended up being:

1) You MUST hold your pinky in the polite position while taking a beer bong.
2) You must drink with your left hand.
3) You cannot take a shot alone.
4) No not puking.
5) No spilling.
6) If you punch a stranger, you can make everyone else in the room take a beer bong.

*Failure to comply to any and all of the rules results in the consumption of a beer bong or shot.

And there was drunk.

Cole asks Richard for a Kleenex. Richard hands him a beer bong. Steve drank with his right hand. Richard loads up the ol’ beer bong again.

With vodka.

We had discovered early in the weekend that a good chant can get anyone to do anything. “HE’S NOT, THAT, DRUNK! HE’S NOT, THAT, DRUNK!” over and over could get the pope to do a beer bong; Steven didn’t have a chance. Down the hatch went the beery/vodka combo that we love so much. Chants ensued. We used this to our advantage repeatedly, and it worked. Try it at home.

People start showing up. Our affinity for Soulja Boy’s newest musically genius piece “YAH, BITCH!” grew. Everybody got rowdy and violent as we practiced our new moves.

Richard and I take a hop, skip and a jump down to the laundry room for a short chat, where he notices a pair of football shin guards on one of the shelves. Naturally he steals them and puts them on. We return to the kitchen and ask people to kick him in the shins for amusement. Eventually he gets hurt. I take a seat at the kitchen table and decide that it’s time to stop fucking around and get pile-drived. I begin taking rapid fire shots and start being a complete bitch.

An extremely awkward PDA couple had arrived earlier in the night, and had spent the entirety of their stay huddled in the corner by the fridge canoodling and suckling on each other. For a while I resisted publicly mocking them and kept myself at bay by making fools of them secretly with others at the table. Soon however, my drunkenness took ahold of me like it always does.

“Yeah, excuse me—we don’t have intercourse in the kitchen here. Thank you,” I say. I mean this girl’s boyfriend was literally licking her knockers at this point by the microwave. Stop it.

The girl looks at me with sad, hurt eyes. I laugh and continue to drink. She slinks out of the kitchen with her boyfriend. Several minutes later, Jamie approaches me and says, “Becca, you made that girl cry.”

I laugh. “Because I said no coitus in the cullinary area? I don’t care. At all.”

At this point Tearful Tammy peers around the corner searching for sympathy. In light of our Soulja Boy moves, I shout, “Get out ma face, ho! Get out ma face, ho!” She crawls backward.

Jamie: “Yeah. I told her you wouldn’t apologize. Or care.”

“And you were right. Wanna take a shot?” Our night simply continues. Baby Bop cries on her own, but quickly recovers as she and her ugly boy-toy begin a 45-minute photo shoot in the hallway. Predictable.

Kara, Missy and I decide to go to Taco Bell for the fiftieth time that weekend. We sit down, and I convince Kara to go up to the counter with her receipt and claim that she hadn’t received one of her items. She does it, obviously, as she has no inhibitions left to speak of, and returns cheerfully with a free taco. I am the lord of the land.

My night becomes a black hole. I remember jumping around like an ape and being obnoxious back at the apartment, but not a lot else until bedtime. It’s about 2 a.m. and people are vomitting all over the place. R-Grandy has regurgitated her entire digestive system, and Cole has projectile vomited off the patio onto the cement below. A random girl has passed out on the futon in the living room and had been throwing up all over herself for the past hour. There is nowhere else for me to sleep. I see my opportunity.

I skip on over to the futon, grab the barfy girl like a baby, and shout, “UP AND ADAM!” and toss her to the floor so that I could sleep there. Rude and inconsiderate. It’s what I do.

I awake the next morning at 7 a.m., hammered. I drunk dial a few folk and then pass back out. Around 11, everyone starts to shuffle out to join the group. It is at this time that we see Laurel’s newest art exhibit that is Cole’s face.

Cole walks into the living room with colored marker all over his face. His facial hair, which is already red, is colored in orange. His sideburns are plum colored. His eyelids: bright orange. He was a painting palette, and nothing less. Crayola’s so-called “washable” colored markers are a fib in a box. No amount of soap and water could cleanse his skin of his colorful mask. We go to Applebee’s.

No puking this time on my part (reference to 2007- a year to remember).

And so ends Veishea 2008. It was a good time, team.

“Oh Kehly. If you were a girl we could do stuff.”


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