Your Bestest Shitfaced Stories

By Lauri Apple  |  January 8, 2011 | 6:00pm
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We asked you to tell us about your most memorable moments on the sauce, and several hundred of you responded. So much vomiting! So much collapsing! And so much quality writing. Good job, everyone. Without further ado, our ten favorites.

Intent to Fuck

I met some classmates at a bar, intending to have just one beer. So, a several shots later, I was making out with this friend of theirs, the bar’s closing, and we’re headed out to an “after party.” Aforementioned guy drives my car to the party, which turns out to be at his place. At first I was worried that I’d been lured away from my friends, but other people were there, so I relaxed. One of those people was a woman that had not been at the bar that the guy immediately walked off with. Turns out it was his fiancee, who was not supposed to be there.
Being a woman who values solidarity, and extremely drunk, I informed her of what had happened at the bar and that I believed I’d been driven back to the place with, “intent to fuck.” She asked me to repeat what I’d said in front of the dude, I did, and I was promptly kicked out the door on my drunk ass. My friends had not yet arrived, so I found my car, tossed the keys in the back, and slept until they located me. We had pizza and I vomited.
Later, I found out that when my friends arrived, the fiancee confronted them and said, “your friend just said something that ruined my life.” My friend, trying to be diplomatic and smooth everything over said, “oh, Holly, she’s full of shit.”
I’m told the happy couple married.

Ass Full of Glass

August 14, 2009: The Day I Got Laid Off.
I had spent the day alternating between bawling my eyes out and shitting my guts out, thanks to my awesome case of IBS that flares up under any type of stress.
My former boss from my first job, the one I VOLUNTARILY LEFT, called me up and suggested a girl’s happy hour to take my mind off my troubles. Fan-fucking-tastic! I’d go, nibble on some appetizers, have a glass or two of white wine, and come home sloppy drunk and far happier. So, I got all dolled up, marveling the whole time at how thin I looked (thanks, diarrhea!), pranced down the stairs in my 4-inch heels that I’d broken out of my closet for this very occasion, met Heather at the door and went on my merry way.
Fast-froward to 3 hours later, 4 appetizers later (2 of them being RAW AHI TUNA TACOS) and 2 small glasses of wine, a mixed drink and a vodka shot later, and I was in the restaurant bathroom, drunkenly shitting out every inch of intestines I had left. Every. Single. Inch. After I finished, I sat there on the toilet, weaving back and forth and trying to convince myself that I COULD focus, that I wasn’t THAT drunk.
And then… it hit me. A wave of nausea so strong and so powerful that it took everything I had to pull up my underwear as I slumped to the floor and projectile vomited those nummy RAW AHI TUNA TACOS and everything else I had consumed into (almost) the toilet.
Now, I’m a healthy-sized girl and can carry my liquor like no one’s business; in the real world, I wouldn’t have even been phased by what I’d drunk. But after a day of total dehydration, no food and tons of stress, those drinks beat the everliving shit out of me.
Fast-forward to an hour later, where I’m STILL throwing up with my pants around my ankles and passing out in-between barfing sessions. My boss is tipsily banging on the stall door, demanding that I unlock it (I can barely hold on to my consciousness, let alone open my eyes and move to unlock a goddamn stall door). Things went black for a while, and the next thing I know, they’ve managed to unlock the stall door and someone is giving me sips of ice water from a glass. Which I then threw up.
The best part of the evening wasn’t when Heather’s friend/my former coworker, Judie, dropped the glass with ice water behind me and it shattered, and I accidentally rolled on it as I barfed and got glass embedded in my ass.
It wasn’t when Heather and Judie tried repeatedly to pick up 185 lbs. of my dead-weight ass and pull up my icy, soaked and glass-laden pants.
It wasn’t when other women in the bathroom saw me and went, “EWWWW!” and Heather told them I got laid of and they became immediately sympathetic, cooing “Oh, my God, that’s HORRIBLE! I’m so sorry! I’d be trashed, too! I hope she feels better!”
No, the best part of the night was when the manager had to come in, help them lift me up/pull up my pants and put me on a chair, and then slide me (I was passed out cold) AND the chair out of the bathroom, through the restaurant, out the door and to the front of the restaurant, where Rob was waiting for me (thank God, someone had the insight to call him). He tenderly helped pick me up and placed me gently in the front seat, where I immediately woke up, dribble-barfed down the side of my seat and out the door, and passed out again. WINNER.
Needless to say, I woke up the next morning, covered in RAW AHI TUNA TACO vomit with shards of glass drilled into my ass cheeks and all up and down my thighs. More surprisingly, however, was that Rob didn’t immediately demand a divorce.

Ouch and Ewww

In Spring of ’06, I was 21. I worked as a cocktail waitress at a nightclub, and spent most of the rest of my time at a bar down the street or getting drunk at shows and house parties. Two very good friends of mine, who had been on the run from the law (long story), returned after 6 months of being god-knows-where. We decided that the only appropriate way to celebrate was to get 15 of our buddies together, all chip in on a cheap hotel room and booze, and get absolutely shit-housed.
I was pouring the drinks, so they were getting progressively stronger as the night wore on. My friend, we’ll call him Bob, and I had a tradition of surprise-punching each other in the face when we drank together (out of love, I assure you). And there was a game of truth or dare going on. I ended up peeing in the sink , getting my nose broken, and (intentionally, on a dare) drinking a cup of pee that night. In that order.

You Just Look So Much Like Him

I was 18, and my ex-boyfriend and I were living with his mom at this time. It wasn’t NYE, just one of those times when we were just hanging out and partying. After imbibing many mixed drinks with questionable contents, I made my way upstairs to the bathroom, threw up, got naked, and crawled in bed. With my ex-boyfriend’s mom.
She was nice about it, though. Just politely pointed out that I seemed to be in the wrong bed and sent me on my way.

Here I Am

A few years back, I was throwing a New Year’s party at the house I shared with a few friends from college. They were all out that night, and the gathering ended up being kind of small…which means there was more alcohol than we really needed. Especially when it came to the cheap champagne.
You know that Dorothy Parker quote? “I like some champagne, a glass or two at the most. After one I’m under the table, after two I’m under the host?”
Well since I was hosting the party, I did not end up under myself…luckily. However, right after midnight, I rang in the New Year by stripping myself completely naked in the living room and screaming “If you’ve ever wondered what I look like completely naked, here is your answer!”
Apparently, after this happened, my friends wrangled me back into my pants, but I stayed topless for a 45 minute span I do not remember at all.
I don’t host NYE parties anymore.

When Being Groped in the Street Is Good

Spring 2005. I was a struggling, dead broke, 24-year-old event planner for a tiny NYC non-profit. I had spent the previous 8 weeks working non-stop planning our organization’s annual gala benefit, with nary a day off. The event in question was on Monday, but that Saturday night I had my first night off in months! And I had the Sunday off too – I could sleep in! Truly a dream.
I decided to go out for a real night of drinking that only a stressed-out, poverty-stricken person in their early 20s can handle. Meaning… East Village bar crawl! College friends in town! Shots! Vodka! Gin! Bad decisions! I really only vaguely remember where we went, who we were with, what we drank… but we ended up at a divey bar on 4th Street. At like 3:30am.
As I’m swaying at the bar, room spinning, my eyes lock on a cute guy at the other end of the bar. He sends me a drink, we get to chatting. Eventually my friends leave, with my OK. Guy and I go outside to have a cigarette. Where we proceed to make out like our ship was going down. On the stoop of this bar. On a crowded street. And I do mean making out… just sloppy, gratuitous, hands up the bra, hands in the boxers… going. at. it. People on the street were hooting and cheering! The shame!
Guy and I come up for air, and I decide I want to go home, alone. Did I mention that the following morning was the first time I could sleep in in MONTHS? Dammit, I was going to sleep in my own bed, alone. So I tell guy that I’m heading home, thanks for the grope, call me sometime. He asks to come to my apartment, and offers to “eat me out” in the cab. Despite this romantic proposition, I went home by myself (but not until after we made out in the ATM vestibule)…
Fast forward to today… we’ve been married for 2 1/2 years. And we go to that bar on our anniversary every year. I’ve had sloppier, more shameful drunken evenings, but this one has got to be the most memorable!

Seeing Eye Ponies

One evening, my friends and I, being slightly impulsive and irresponsible at times, decided to see what all the Four Loko fuss was about. We went out to a party, and I distinctly remember thinking something along the lines of “Hey I’m pretty in control, so much for Blackout in a Can.” Yeah, about that. I woke up the next morning naked in my bed (which had no sheets or blankets on it; they were for some reason on a random mattress sitting in the middle of my floor) with my best (straight, female, also naked) friend next to me, a bloody teeshirt on the floor which didn’t belong to either of us, and a coat pocket and shoe (???) full of quarters. Neither my friend nor I could remember anything that happened after leaving the party, and the only thing anyone else could remember was that I at one point had a 45 minute discussion about Seeing Eye Ponies with one of my sober friends. I now understand why that shit is getting banned.

Bob Dylan in the Bathroom

This is like picking your favorite child. So hard. I guess I’ll go with this:
Christmas 2009. It was a stressful one. My husband and I were living with my mother-in-law while remolding our home. Add his brother and sister-in-law, Sister and her husband and 4 kids under the age of 6 to that. Cramped quarters. My friend home brews hard cider. He gave me a 6 pack for Christmas. I didn’t know how strong they were. Holy crap. After the extended family left the Christmas gathering, I proceeded to drink 3 bottles (empty stomach). I tried to be “funny” with my brother-in-law by flipping him off. He didn’t get the joke (nor do I). I became really angry and threatened to shove my foot up his ass.
I then drunkenly demanded my husband drive around the neighborhood to see “THE CHRISTMAS LIGHTS”. While driving, I proceeded to light up a Macy’s gift card, thinking it was a cigarette. When I realized that was not a Camel Light, I demanded we stop by the local gas station so I could buy a pack of Camels. While my husband is buying the cigarettes, I use the bathroom. Now I don’t know why this happened, but I came out of the bathroom yelling “That’s BOB FUCKING DYLAN. YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME BUT THAT IS BOB FUCKIN DYLAN”. My very confused and embarassed Husband completed the transaction and got me promptly back in the car.
On the way back to my MIL, I called my father-in-law to wish him “A Happy Christmas” and profuse my love for him (and how he raised such a good son). All in all, I’d say I fail at life.

Irony

My favorite shit-faced moment: Getting absolutely hammered at my old job’s annual Christmas party. And where did I work? The General Service Office of Alcoholics Anonymous World Services, Inc. Yep, THAT Alcoholics Anonymous. It’s “head office” is mainly populated by underpaid, under-appreciated, non-alcoholic women, most of whom were sexually harassed at one point or another. We didn’t get cost of living increases, raises or promotions, so we pretty much drank our bonuses on the many, many contributions AA members tossed into the proverbial hat that trickled down to the GSO. And, no, the members had/have. no. fucking. clue.

Mystery Crush—Revealed!

This is the epic story of how Ms. Muffins first got laid, post-transition.
So I had been full time for barely a year and things were going quite well. All of my friends had adjusted quite nicely and I was hardly getting “found out” anymore. Dating, however, remained a catastrophy for me, because I simply didn’t know how to bring “it” up. I tried pre-emptively dropping the t-bomb, but that never got me a date (still doesn’t). I tried waiting till the 3rd date, but then people would get offended, like I was lying to them. It remains my curse.
Anyways, for New Years that year, I was invited to a friend’s house. She had this amazing apartment with a gorgeous view of the fireworks and plenty of free liquor to go around. I didn’t know everyone there, but there were a few mutual friends, including of course the host. I had no idea what I was in for.
The night started briskly enough with a few shots to get up to cruising altitude. Over beer pong, my teammate pulled me aside and mentioned that someone at that party had the biggest crush on me and had no idea how to tell me. I immediately asked who, but was denied. For the rest of that evening, I was determined to figure out who it was.
Fast forward several hours. It’s now nearly midnight. Over the course of the evening, I was crowned Beerpong Champion and had imbibed considerably. Someone had the good sense to take my heels off of me, because I certainly would have killed myself or broken my ankle with how tipsy I’d become. At every opportunity I had saddled up with friends at the party, and trying to figure out who it was who liked me, pretty much acted like a happy drunk girl you meet at dive bars. I was extra affectionate, I hugged and sat on laps. My cleavage was constantly on display and I didn’t care. I kissed four people on the lips in an attempt to weed out my best guesses to no avail. I swear to god, I tried every damn thing to figure it out. No luck.
Finally, the end is near on TV and I’ve walked away from the party because I was fighting back tears. Was it a mean joke? I’d already confronted my teammate 3 times since and was reassured it wasn ‘t a joke, but he claimed that he was sworn to secrecy – and that it wasn’t him. I asked him to tell whoever it was for me to get a move on, but he refused. I was at this point very, very tipsy, tired, rejected, more than a little upset and quite horny all wrapped up into one. I decided I was done with the party and just wanted to go home. While everyone else was gathering at the TV I had slipped to the bedroom to grab my coat (everyone had thrown their coats on the bed) and found my friend, the host, with my jacket in hand. I thought nothing of it and went to take it from her when she stepped right in and gave me one of the best kisses I’ve ever had. I mean, this kiss was hot. She broke the kiss and tried to come clean about her feelings for me but something had snapped in me and I wasn’t hearing it. I pretty much pushed her onto the bed full of jackets and started making out with her. Things got hot and heavy very quickly. Off came her shirt, then my dress, then her pants. We were rolling around on all the jackets when we heard a knocking sound. We both looked up in horror to find a small handful of friends and aquaintences waiting at the doorway for their jackets. We forgot to close the bedroom door.

Image by Rick Audet.

 
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