Sicko

Let me begin by saying that this entry is in no way affiliated with nosy busy-body Michael Moore’s epic drama by the same name. It is, however, likely to be in poor taste being a tribute to all those who saw fit to regurgitate their last meal upon our premises. If you feel the subject matter will offend your delicate constitution, I urge you to read on nevertheless as the mental image of your queasy retching reaction is too precious to forego. Claimers and disclaimers now delivered with due diligence, I present to you the following nasty tale.

It is often said that he who laughs last laughs best, and taking that to heart, I will present my own sordid tale to start, so that both you and I may forget by the end and enjoy that last laugh at someone else’s expense. By now, having read all of these entries in order no doubt, you are intimately familiar with the types of goings on we began to experience in the dorms of Goodyear. One of the more memorable days that year has been alluded to as the Chester Cheetah day, the rum and coke party day, the Dark Pistacio threatens Rocky Horror day, and such. In any event, while the day started with the best of noble intentions, it quickly devolved into one of the least shining moments of my college career.  That spring semester was quite a bear, and in order to relieve some of the pressures, it was decided by committee to have a blow out party in the dorm the evening after Knaus and Aaron’s big Thermo mid-term. We planned to invite everyone we knew, and in preparation utilized the fully aged services of CK to procure us a big bottle of rum from one of the liquor stores near campus.

The day itself began with an air of excitement. My mid-terms were complete and I had the day off from work or any other such care. The night previous, it was advanced, and agreed upon, that it would be a jolly good prank for me to attend the Thermo mid-term and have a crack at the test myself. Aaron recounts this beautifully and with some deal of inaccuracy in Chester Cheetah Takes Thermodynamics. Close enough for NASA work in any case. I do hold to this day, however, that the 2 shots of yak piss had well worn off by the time we descended the dark and cluttered stairway from atop Ceramic Dreams, colloquially known as the Knaus house. In any case, I digress; the day began with boyish good humor and we returned to the dorm to set up Knaus’s stereo and prepare for the party. On the way back, we stopped at McDonalds in the University Plaza and got some chow. Knaus suggested our chocolate milkshakes could be considerably enhanced by the addition of some of the rum we procured, and things just get murky from there.

The event itself was a success. We had in attendance not only the four of us, but S. O’Donnell, Burns, Mooney, Dave W, Louis, Jeff S, Schultz, and in order to ensure it wasn’t a complete sausage fest, invited my sister Laura and her friend Jen Topolski. A gala affair, lacking only in black ties and tails. To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember a whole lot about what went on that evening, except that it was a good time and the rum milkshake was going down smooth. Knaus was the first to reach the state of total inebriation and made his way down to laundry room, refunded his McDonalds in the washing machine and crawled into the dryer for a nap. It was some time before we realized he was gone, but when the search party located him, he was already on the road to recovery and picked up his rum consumption where he left off.

Although I was having a good time right where I was, Dan managed, probably with surprisingly little effort, to convince us that going to Rocky would be the perfect cap on the evening. Although I was already seeing double, I was able to adopt the guise of Pistacio. Aaron was convinced to paint his face as well that night, although I don’t believe he adopted a full on clown identity that could be conveniently resurrected for future enjoyment. A merry group of eclectic troubadours, we marched down the halls of Goodyear as a sight to frighten all children, nursing mothers, and conservative republicans alike. Trouble began by the time we reached the day room. Spying several discarded fluorescent lights jutting up from a trash bin, I decided to demonstrate my Mu-Tai prowess by shattering them both with one magnificent blow. The magnificence of the results was somewhat marred by several flying shards hitting Knaus in the face. Though his legendary temper arose, it was subdued in the same instant by the effects of the rum allowing for my survival.

Although my full range of mobility remained with me down the seven flights of stairs, it had somewhat abandoned me by the bottom. Before making the long trek over to Rocky some hundred yards distant, I developed the sensation that my bladder would not maintain its full condition for that amount of time and insisted I stop to pee on the rocky outcrop of the Goodyear escarpment. When it became apparent that I could not retain the agility to both stand and urinate at the same time, S O’Donnell, in a selfless act that no doubt haunts his dreams even to this day, held me up by my waist as I erratically sprayed about. If I missed getting any on him, it was by no means intentional, and it stands to reason that this was the very last event he ever attended. Relieved, the both of us, we rejoined the group and stumbled incompetently across Main street.

My adventure in elimination cost us precious time, as did the glacial pace at which we were able to move the herd forward, so when we reached the ticket counter, we found it closed. Needless to say, after all the drunken effort expended, I was to some degree upset, especially given that I fancied myself an integral part of the show in my Pistacio persona. The ignorant ticket wench feigned a complete lack of knowledge of my importance and even identity. No, my name was not on the list, and my golden ticket was safely tucked away in my other pants. I ranted, pleaded and finally threatened, all to no avail. Eventually, bored with my repetitive red faced diatribe, she closed the door in our faces with a smug superior look.

I was pretty gone by the time the rant occurred, and the energy expended finished me off. After this point, I only have the highly suspect recounting of the other drunken idiots who were present. Dave’s version of this story, at first telling, has me collapsing in the middle of Main Street where after I had to be carried across the rest of the way. Subsequent tellings and retellings, however, have me being schlepped across Main dozens, then hundreds, of times as I would suddenly revive and dart back across only to collapse once again on the far side. I liken the accuracy to that of the salami sandwich tale. In any case, it can be assumed that either alone, or with the patient Sisyphusian undertakings of the assemblage, I did indeed make it across alive, if not well.

Under the tender care of those few brave souls who remained; I was brought back up to the room and dumped into bed. I have no recollection of this, but the description of my vomiting experience is not for the weak of stomach and included graphic visions of excessive mucus and repeated attempts to dive directly into the vomitorium itself. I slept the sleep of the dead that night, further illustrated by the thoughtful placement of a toe tag on my person that can be viewed in one of the pics.

I awoke the next morning feeling somewhat worse for wear, but overall relatively OK. At my feeble request, Aaron was kind enough to procure me the famed special of the basement eatery – chicken sandwich with cheese with a side of spiced up waffle fries, also with cheese. He did so still wearing the remains of the previous nights face painting and apparently elicited a considerable amount of worried staring by the staff. As I hungrily wolfed this down, Aaron, O’Donnell, Knaus, Dave and Little Dave (who Dave went and picked up) went down to play basketball. Having finished my greasy repast, I felt good enough to go down and join them, having recovered remarkably. Even so, the night taught an important lesson and never since that time have I ever imbibed spirits to the point where I was forced to return them, slightly used and well mixed.

By the time we made it to Comstock, I found myself more often in the role of the responsible one. Not that I was not enjoying myself to the fullest, but I was now the one holding the barf bucket rather than using it. Granted, the housemates and most of the hangers on generally had enough good sense to know when to stop, but they tended to bring along colorful individuals who did not. During those rough and tumble dark days between the tragic end of his engagement to Carrie and his later taking up with Mary, Dan would bring by a different girl to each of our gatherings. We were never quite sure where they came from; likely ECC, Rocky Horror, or found shooting up behind a 7-11, but they did have in common a morbid insistence on puking somewhere on our premises as a first and last impression.

Sue the Boot was probably the first of these treasures. During one of our shindigs she managed to get completely knackered on whatever cheap watered down beer we had about; likely Schlitz at that point as I recall it being the foundation of the beeraymid. She was one of the few courteous enough to make it all the way to our disgusting unclean commode. Matt, ever the observant toady to her whims, followed her in but lacked the gallantry to close the door. There being a show to watch, watch we did and I have imprinted on my brain the image of her, dressed in red, clutching the porcelain god with frantic might and heaving the contents of her stomach into it. Matt made a half assed attempt to hold her hair back, but obviously failed as I recall she found vomit within it not long after. This may have been the same night she deflowered the quirksome spry lad, which would explain her condition.

Another of Dan’s momentary conquests I recall actually being somewhat more pleasant than the average. I want to say her name was Theresa, but I could be mistaken. I remember her only due to her fitting the pattern. In her case, she fell semi-comatose and babbling upon the couch and later began quietly yorking up over the side. Someone noticed and decided to grab the most convenient bucket, being a wok still filled with oil left upon the stove from one of Aaron and my French fry making experiments. That was likely the last batch. She commenced puking several times directly into the oil, where it began to fry at room temperature. When done, the same helpful soul returned the wok and its contents right to the stove where it remained until Aaron was overcome with the sheer hideousness of it and disposed of the evil soup out back. Knaus, it being his wok, vowed dire revenge on the insult to his property.

There were plenty more I’m sure, but the memories are best forgotten being more mundane than the rest I have related. The one true advantage of these occurrences was that the sickened party was usually too embarrassed to ever set foot on the premises again, allowing for a personnel rotation that kept things from becoming stale.

While none of these instances were at all pleasant, the worst of them, from my point of view, was the Christmas when Matt decided to bring over Goldschlager. For those who don’t know, Goldschlager is a clear, sickeningly sweet hot cinnamon flavored liqueur of 100 proof strength and tiny golden curls floating within it. For some reason Matt felt the need on Christmas day to drown out the sorrows of spending the day with family; who could blame him. He ceremoniously pounded down one shot and became immediately drunk, even before the alcohol should have been able to enter his system properly. True to form, he became brash and belligerent, so in response, we encouraged him greatly to do another, which he did. His BAC doubled, he reeled about like a drunken monkey. His antics, having become more annoying than anything, we encouraged him to do one more in hopes that it would put him out all together.

The third shot almost achieved success, but not before it triggered a reaction to escape. At the time I was sitting in my favorite high armed chair in front of the tube, reading over my TV Topics to see what fantastic new Simpson’s or Seinfeld I could expect to tape that week. Out of no where, Matt lurched in front of me, staggering, almost ready to fall. His mouth opened. My instincts took hold and I sprang from my seat, over the arm, with no time to play hero to that which I left behind. “Noooooo!”, I roared, knowing it was too late. He spasmed, and from his mouth gushed a veritable waterfall of sickly schnapps and Mighty Taco, blasting into my TV Topics, laying prone, innocent, and unread. My rage was palpable, but I dared not accost the assailant as he showed every indication of unleashing his terrible weapon again at the slightest provocation. I had no doubt that there was a round in chamber with my name on it. I stalked off, leaving the mess for those who loved the dirty brute.

The rest of the evening dragged on in drama. I mourning the loss of my beloved guide and Matt, somehow in his daze, fearing my wrath had locked himself into the bathroom. His brother was called to come fetch him and was finally able to coax him out of the loo. It was nary the last time anyone defiled our home as such, but that is all I shall relate at the moment.

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3 Responses

  1. I do not remember McDonald’s at all. I remember Shaun placing his hand in the middle of your back and turning away to prop you up. We endeavoured ot contrive solutions, but in the end resolved we would create more problems with any other action then just letting you piss with aid. The face on the theatre girl was more of anger and fright than superiority. She threatened to call the police. We were in no condition to beat a hasty retreat, as we nary had a sober man amoungst us. I only recall you darting back across Main Street 1-2 times, but I was busy with my own project of covertly sneaking 8 GAB cans in my close-fitting jean-jacket.

    Whoever grabbed the wok was in such a hurry the deposited the contents all over the kitchen floor, forever giving us a sheer finish over the layer of Jason’s lasaugna spills. We all stood around the wok and commented upon the mixture as if we were laying in a picturesque field stairing up at the clouds as they took any form the imagination conceived, except the clouds were puke. This was the girl that Dan dumped on her lawn later int he night and lead Matt’s life to nearly be extinquished, if not for Louis’s fast-talking, but that is another story to come.

    It took Mat”s brother several hours to get Matt out. He, Louis, and I played cards as Matt existed as a ball in the corner of the floor, under his little, red jacket.

    I am suddenly thinking of the day when Wolf’s child-to-be grown curious of his name and stumbles upon this site. Hellow Sambo Wolf!

  2. First off, Sue predated Carrie – there was little elapsed time between Carrie and Mary.

    Second, the girl who almost got Matt killed was “Nikki”, Kris Klausen’s girlfriend at the time, and was not dumped later by Dan on a lawn.

  3. Quite correct Louis. The name of the wok-puker was Carrie (another one) known in our circle as Psycho Carrie.

    Sue got sick many time at Comstock. I have a nice picture of her picking her head out of a toilet, with me holding her bakc, just as the camera flashed.

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