A few weeks ago, I experienced a scrumptious taste of my future. My girlfriend and I... we're not party people. In fact, we make moss look pretty edgy. We're usually content to stay home and rot. Recently, however, a close friend of ours decided to throw a party, and we were graciously invited. She lives just down the street, so we figured that if we didn't like it, we could split, no problem. (*My* thinking was more like: "Cool, she lives down the street, so I can drink too much and not have to worry about driving!")
So we arrived at the party and were surprised to see that we were enjoying ourselves. I was wanting to socialize and make some new friends, so I did what any self-respecting individual in my situation would do: headed straight for the vodka. I mixed it with just about every liquid I could find -- orange juice, pomegranate juice, diet caffeine-free Coke that was over two months old. Really... anything. In fact, at one point, some random guy congratulated me on just how inebriated I was. I was so tickled and proud of myself. I may not have a PhD, but dammit, I can turn my liver into a rotten banana peel like no one's business.
What a blast! Oh, the party ended up being great. At one point everyone began singing Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. People were dancing. I was wearing a pink boa. I fell asleep for ten minutes in a closet. This was what life is about. When whatever benevolent force created life on Earth, it's intention *must* have been for parties such as this to occur.
Then came the gurgly feeling. I took this as my cue to make my way home.
I told my girlfriend I was partied out. She decided to stay a little longer. So I stumbled down the street to our apartment, all the while talking about who knows what to who knows who. When I made it to my building, I spotted a huge guy sitting on the steps. Seriously, this guy was huge. He probably could have given me a concussion with one of his boogers. In my suave state, I managed to stumble right into him, eliciting a look from him that instilled utter fear in me. I quickened my pace as best I could and made it to the apartment safe and sound. At this point I was so hammered that I just wanted to go to sleep. I went into my room and slithered into my bed.
Everything was beautiful, and nothing was bad, except maybe for the spinning room. Yeah... the room... and then... wait... the gurgly feeling again.
Oh man, I had forgotten all about the phantom gurgle. I struggled with what this might mean. Was I hungry? Was I dying? Then, all of a sudden, I exclaimed aloud, as if to some unforeseen force, "I'VE GOT TO PUKE." I quickly stumbled out of bed, the room still spinning, and crashed into the wooden chest in my room, scraping my back pretty bad and smacking my head on a nearby magazine rack. Again in defiance of the unforeseen force, I yelled aloud, "I DON'T CARE, I HAVE TO PUKE."
I ran down the hall in the same way a pinball gains points in its respective machine. At last, I made it to the bathroom. And almost immediately, I started simultaneously barfing in the tub while spewing the foamiest diarrhea into the toilet.
Neither of the aforementioned spews were as they should be. The diarrhea was foamier than normal foamy diarrhea. It had the consistency of frothy dish liquid and the color of a star that had collapsed in on itself. The barf was inconsistently fluid and adhesive -- some sections of it stuck to the tub while the rest flowed down the drain.
All the while I was getting my various excrements all over the floor of the bathroom. Try picturing a large naked guy, shitting and puking, trying not to slip on said shit and puke.
After emptying the contents of my stomach and using up enough anal propulsion to power me to Mars, I managed to haphazardly clean up my mess. Ahh, at last, the worst was over, and I could go back to doing what I do best when faced with adversity.
I went back into the bedroom and smiled at my bed, which was welcoming me with open arms. When I lifted up my comforter I noticed something... odd. There was shit. On the bed. And lot's of it. These were skidmarks that would make the folks of NASCAR envious. What the hell? How did I shit the bed? *When* did I shit the bed? I looked to the poop for answers, but it was just as lost as me.
And here's what's more strange. I threw the soiled sheets into the hamper and let them sit there for two weeks. When I finally grabbed them to throw them in my laundry bag, I noticed something peculiar: the shit was gone! It had left just as mysteriously as it had arrived. The sheets didn't even smell any longer!
I accepted this as a sign. It is now my sworn duty to become a drunken super hero. I'll ride atop a giant vodka bottle, leaving ghostly shits to all who oppose, all the while setting a good example for the kids.