Those who may believe they are completely invincible when it comes to the effects of alcohol should know: your day has yet to come.

Many people will find during their experiences with alcohol that they may do one or two things that aren't considered to be entirely normal activities; and after the fact, they will have no recollection of what happened. I myself am guilty of three separate such crimes against humanity. This is my story.

It started out as a pretty typical poker evening. After losing quickly, I watched the rest of the time, and watching is not always the most exciting thing. Naturally, as any Irishman would, I went and grabbed myself some 151. Double shot. Chaser. Only a few minutes until I was happy. Just to spice things up, I made it four... then six.

Lucky for me, I still had a few minutes left before the shots would get to me. We ran to the store, got some food and a lottery ticket, and came back. The first real feelings were kicking in as I walked back. Stumbling into the house, I was soon to be a walking time bomb. I use that term figuratively; however, it will take a literal meaning shortly.

My uncle, who was also drunk at the time, was in the kitchen. As you all know, two drunks talking to each other are capable of the most intelligent conversations, and so we did. During the talk, gravity foiled numerous attempts at staying upright, and I crashed to the floor many times, much to the amusement of my uncle. However, that wasn't the only natural force working on me at that moment. After you drink that much, eventually you have to go. I excused myself from the room and proceeded to commit my first crime of the evening.

Walking down the hall towards the bathroom, I guess the hallway just seemed too long. I mean, it WAS a ten-foot walk; and something inside me really turned me on to the wall. Why not? I dropped my drawers, and left my signature all over the wall.

From the other room, my cousin was talking to my uncle. He asked, "Do you hear him peeing?"

"I think so," was the reply.

"I better check on him."

At that last line, they both heard a crash. My cousin came up to me and found me lying in the puddle of my warm water. Apparently, after making a mess of the hallway, I went stiff as a board and just crashed on my side, laughing. I was told to just go downstairs; my cousin cleaned it up.

After some time downstairs, I snuck back upstairs to rob some more 151. I had one last double shot. Lucky for me, my tolerance level is high, because that many shots are enough to put 75% of the population into a coma and possibly kill them; my BAC was probably somewhere around 0.4%. I didn't know any better, though, and I definitely didn't know better when I violated another rule and threw up, not just on the floor and futon, but also on one of my best friends. He laughed at me, since everything is funny when you're silly -- even the most disgusting mix of liquid and chunks covering a good portion of you.

My last one will top the other two, unfortunately. At the time, it could have quite possibly been the most vile and disgusting action in the world; but after all was cleaned up from the mess, some people couldn't find any more humor in some of the better comedies.

All the drinking had given me a bit of a fit with gas. Being the happy person I was, I enjoyed every bit of letting off a little steam in my happy corner of the world. Throughout the night, my muscles had achieved a relaxation point great enough to allow the two other events to happen without much trouble. There was no tension in me. Anywhere.

Contained within the poisonous gas I was releasing from my rectum came another glorious substance, one that we all have to let out once or twice a day. Less frequently, though, those chunks of digested waste are mixed in with some liquid, showing that one's digestive track isn't working entirely properly at that time. I guess it was just one of those days. During one of my happy farts, an explosive force was let loose. Forget Hiroshima -- this was real power. In those moments I created a mess of chocolate too rich for a king.

I only wish that I could remember exactly how it was and how things ended up. All that remains in my mind are bits and pieces of the aftermath.

Some horrific smell woke my other cousin up. He first looked to his right, and saw his futon covered in vomit, and his friend bathing in that same juice. But... that wasn't it. This smell was worse than vomit. Turning to his left, he saw me: eighteen years old, white, slim, cuddling in a blanket while rocking back and forth and making nervous noises. Next to me were my pants and underwear, covered in a mess you'd need a safety suit to clean up. Remember, if you will, the movie Jurassic Park. Remember when the gal sticks her hand into that great mountain of shit made by the dinosaur. That would be what my cousin was looking at -- only it was covered in an equally disgusting liquid from the same hole.

He told me to go take a shower, which I did. The shower was the most difficult part of the whole night, because they're just far too hard to run. My last memory of that evening was in that shower, looking down at my legs, which were covered in so much shit I convinced myself I grew super hairy legs. (My legs are hairy, but the hair is light... but with the added fecal matter on it, each one was as clear as day.)

In the morning, the story was relayed to me; and mixing their tale in with the bits and pieces I remembered, I knew all was the truth.

There is no real moral to the story. It was just, looking back at it now, a pretty damn funny night. Fortunately, I know I'm not the only one in the world to have committed these acts; but my story soon became legend in that household.

-- Andrew