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Posts Tagged ‘drinking’

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Don't be that girl. Unless it's your birthday. Or you just got divorced.

The pressures of life and bills and relationships make it reasonable, nay necessary, to socialize with others and indulge in alcohol from time to time.   Of course the way that you interpret “from time to time” is up for speculation.   My cousin, friends and I decided to center our imbibing around a “super sports weekend” consisting of the Broncos/Patriots game and game 3 of the NLDS with the Rockies and Phillies.

Thanks to the subarctic temperatures in Denver Saturday night the baseball game was moved to Sunday, meaning that rather running the 100, this was more like the 1600…summer Olympics style.  A veritable marathon of talking, dancing, drinking, games and sports- – there was going to be some required stamina and decorum.  Looking back on how the weekend went, involving 1 arrest, a couple upheave episodes and several trainwreck bruises,scratches and wipeouts, it seems pertinent to use our collective group of 8 to lay a few ground rules about how – and how not- to be a class-A drunk.  It’s like a case study for the extremely hammered!

The wrongs:

1) The world is not your bathroom, don’t make it out to be: This is especially important should you find yourself involved in any type of outdoor festival, tailgating or public event.  Peeing on walls, yourself or in bottles (unless you have eagle eye aim) is for cavemen or cocker spaniels.  We are classy women and men here.  Find bathrooms before your 7 bottles of IPA because you know what?  That bush that you think is a hidden forest is pretty see thru once you’re blitzed.

Addendum: Use the bathrooms of your own gender.  A girl trying to go in a urinal is only funny to that girl and flashing genitals to the opposite sex at a sporting event only happens on Cinemax, not in real life.

2) Don’t Get Lippy: Unless you are provoked, don’t be the provoker.  A little ribbing when you kill someone in Cornhole is expected.  Unloading dirty expletives on the stadium worker who won’t sell you 9 beers at once is bad taste.  Now I swear like a sailor.  Much more than what is considered ‘classy.’ But the skank factor goes up to volume 11 if not only am I holding my own pint of Jack Daniels, but also screaming at someone “You Don’t Know Me!” It’s the equivalent of holding four children on my hip in front of a double wide.

3) Walk, don’t Run: I’ll use my self as an example for this one.  In my excitement for football during the weekend, I ran towards Invesco field only to find myself bite it, sprawling forward into some orange construction netting.  No one looks sophisticated sprawled out like one of those chalk drawings of murder victims. I now have to brush off at work why it looks like I had unsuccessfully tried to fight Mr. T all weekend.

If you are going to run, or need to (from the police, I’ll get to that in a second), make sure it’s early on in the game and not after 4 solid hours of drinking.  Ever see a pretty girl in a dress at a wedding with lots of cuts and bruises on her legs?  That girl has been running drunk.  Not cute.

Addendum:  If you can barely walk in the shoes you put on pre-drunk, you don’t have a shot in hell post-drunk.  I was wearing Uggs and still managed to almost cripple myself.  I’m not saying go the orthopedic route, but be honest about how fucked up you really plan on getting and act accordingly.

4) If you get caught by the police, they win: You can run, swerve, fake out, do the Heisman pose… but if the police get you, it’s game over.  Calling them pigs, swearing, spitting or throwing your beer only makes your time in the drunk tank that much worse.  Our friend during this weekend got her assault on and ended up in surgical booties and a holding cell which she likened to Alcatraz.  “They were so mean to me,” she said.  Well no kidding.

The rights:

1) Find an auspicious time to throw up: Yes, no one looks classy or regal throwing up.  Yeh, maybe you shouldn’t have drank that much.  But sometimes it happens!  Take a cue from my friend Diane who at the top of Invesco field managed to throw up in a french fry container with only her companions knowing!  Quiet, head forward, like nothing happened.  She also managed to say “Pardon me, hold on please, I’m going to throw up now”  several times.  That is the way a real lady would do it.  This style also comes in handy for women’s social functions when you can’t stand the lady talking about her ‘amazing, supportive husband’ or her ‘spiritual trip to Thailand’ and you find yourself downing vodka martinis.

2) The more polite you are, the less people focus on your hammer time: Using phrases such as “excuse me” “sorry” and “thank you” allow people to focus on you kindness and way less on your ability to beer bong like it’s a night game, mid season with your team going 7-0 ! You can bet they’re a little blizted too and the Mary-Sunshine Martha Stewart attitude goes a long way.

3) Continue to Tip Well: This goes along with politeness.  If you’re 5 patron shots in and you are still tipping at least 20 percent?  Not only are you a classy drunk, but you can do your math!  “Goddamn genius from a nice family” is what people will be muttering behind you (at least that’s what I pretend is happening!)

Point being, if you’re American and a breathing homosapien there’s a good chance you’ve been drunk.  But unless you’re 19, being “that guy/girl” is no longer acceptable.  Take a cue from the Irish and not only be wasted, but also fully functional.

It’s all about multitasking.

And we love that in the U.S.A.

And if you’re unsure?  Just yell “Michael Phelps is a classy drunk!!”

No one will question you.

Skelladay

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slip-and-fall-3N Allow me to set the scene: It’s the Spring of 2003. As a freshman, and newly initiated sister of Delta Gamma, I pretty much feel as though I have the world by the ass. I found myself proudly walking to class with my DG letter bag and actually saw people take notice of me—basically, I was the shit (Or so I thought).

Whenever a social event would take place, I was ALL over it. Getting ready with my best friends quickly became a rite of passage: we would collect our favorite clothes and meet in a dorm room and rifle through everything to come up with the sweetest outfits. This particular night, we were all going to a party at one of the fraternity houses so we had to look great. Keeping in mind this is 2003, we were most likely rocking the newest peasant shirt or a bitchin’ pair of gaucho pants (Cara). Once we had our look together, we’d trudge up the hill to the house, walk through the back door and into the basement where naked bar-slides were taking place right before our very eyes. Male pledges in white shirts and ties were getting our drinks and we were living the dream.

After hours of beer pong and the occasional pitcher dance, we were all about ready to call it a night. At this point, the floor of the fraternity house was littered with cigarette butts and God knows what the hell else, but, I can safely say the floor was COVERED in spilled beer. This I know for sure.  I wouldn’t exactly call myself a detective, but when you’re wading in a 1/4″ of Natty Lite, you know it.

The girls and I grabbed our coats and started to walk towards the door when the unthinkable happened. I slipped on the beer and fell. Hard. This CANNOT be happening. I’ve seen this happen to people: tripping and falling down an entire flight of stairs or missing a step and falling flat on their faces. This only happens to randoms, to the girl in the ugly shirt, to people on American’s funniest home videos… CERTAINLY not to someone as cool as me.

False.  It happens to everyone, and it happened to me. At the worst possible time.


I’m on the floor, waiting for my friends, a brother, a pledge, ANYONE to help me up. No one does. Instead, all I can hear is laughter…and I’m not talking chuckles, I’m talking guttural scream laughter that seems to continue to get louder. Its official, I want to die. I quickly collect myself and start cursing the Gap flip-flops with the worn out tread I was wearing, while doing everything humanly possible not to start crying right on the spot. Being unsure if the humiliation or the excruciating pain in my arm was worse, I try my damndest to make light of the situation. Luckily, one of the brothers of the house felt bad for me and ordered one of the pledges to walk my friends and I home and to report back to him on my progress.

Long story short: I broke my arm and had a cast. NEAT. No, I didn’t let anyone sign it.
Why is it human nature to laugh when someone gets hurt? Don’t get me wrong, I let out a good LOL a few weeks ago when my roommate came home from coaching field hockey with a soft cast because she, too, had broken her arm. BUT, why is that funny? It’s not. Are we victims of nervous laughter? Are we thanking God we weren’t that poor soul that just publically embarrassed him/herself?

I’ve also noticed that the older you get, the less laughter erupts when you fall.  The Caus said it best:

“If you fall and people are concerned, you’re old…or really fat.”

Anyway you look at it, we, as humans, are assholes.

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