Friday, April 25, 2008

Work-Over.

I'm sure anyone who fancies alcohol has gone to work hungover, but in this next tale I will tell you all a story. No, in this story, our usual hero is not so proud, but we all had a good laugh, and even if that means my life is only being utilized as a form of comedy, then so be it.

This story takes place during the fall 2007 semester of my sophomore year at UNLV. It was the week before finals and I had officially been getting the ball rolling on my alcoholic binge that lasted 3 months. As in, i wasn't sober for 3 months. Damn, i rule. Anyways, this was about a month after turning 20 (the end of the infamous Beard Month) and so each weekend complied of me trying to drown my liver. I have for quite some time now worked an early shift on Saturdays at work because it is the easiest day to work and so it usually wouldn't matter if I partied the night before. Unfortunately, this week I had taken that as "hey, I can get completely shit-housed, fall asleep and go to work without reprimands!" Little did I know the fun I would be having.

So I arrive to work wasted. Not hungover yet, still wasted drunk. My good friend Scoundrel (whom has been in previous stories) was also hungover, adding to the spectacle any customer may have seen. Here we are, cuddled in our little corners at the front desk of a pool, half dead, and would've been crying if it didn't hurt to move. I figure I must be starving (seeing I had vomited a lot the night before) so I creep on over to the vending machines to go buy a pack of Starburst and a Sprite (breakfast of champs) to settle my stomach. On the return trip, I can tell something isn't right. I set down my treats and briskly walk into the men's room. I get into the closest stall just in time to paint the porcelain colors not yet known to man. It was fierce; the flying out my mouth, that stinging feeling in your throat, even some shooting out my nose. After a couple minutes, I clean myself up and head back to the desk. Scoundrel looks up at me and asks "where did you go?" I reply, "i just threw up my life, I feel about a million times better now." To which Scoundy replies "good idea" and heads off to have his own fiesta.

Now this became kinda of a routine deal for a couple more hours- taking turns vomiting, feeling better, drinking some soda or eating some candy, feeling sick, etc., etc. But then once we both had come around a bit, we decided to get our weekly fix of Little Ceaser's $5 pizza and $1 bread sticks. It's a phenomenal experience. As we're sitting there eating, we both feel top notch. The sun came out, birds were singing, cartoon foxes pranced along playing banjos; all the accoutrement needed for a Saturday afternoon. We hop on the internet some more, play a few games, chat to kids on myspace. But then suddenly, I got thirsty. I get up and walk to the water fountain and am coming back to the desk when something doesn't feel right. I think to myself, "dammit Marc, it's been like 3 hours since you last puked you're fine, don't be a pussie." So I hop in my chair and talk to Scoundy. He grabs the last slice of pizza and begins eating it and starting a conversation. I try to pay attention, but all I keep thinking is "don't puke, don't puke". About halfway through the slice and the convo, I hold up my hand and say "hold on" and lean over the front desk trashcan.

An atom bomb of partially digest pizza and bread sticks drops from me, followed by two purely liquid explosions. All over that trashcan is my insides. Scoundrel looks at his pizza and tosses it in with the bucket-o-vomit. We look up at each other and my watery eyes meet his as we assess what just occurred. He starts cracking up to my face and I quickly join between gasps of breath and me saying "I'm soooo embarrassed, I hope no one saw me."

After cleaning up the workstation and myself, I was pretty much recovered by the end of the work shift. Which was nice since I had to head down to UNLV that night to take my Spanish final in a warm, amazon rain forest-esque room. Luckily, I held down any sick feelings after that, and still did great on the test. As they say though, "the pesky gerbil may play in his pen, but the brash squirrel can still bury his loot."