Guest Blog

I have a friend named Mike Carpenter. He's pretty awesome:

For centuries it has been known: puking is hilarious and strippers are awesome. Combining the two yields a much less spectacular end than most would assume, that is unless you are fortunate enough to come across a puke loving fetish stripper on the day of a stomach virus, and in that case things may arrive at a better end than my experience. However, if you do decide to partake in a puking extravaganza with a disease laden stripper that has the reproachable fetish of loving puke, do your future kids and the rest of the gene pool a favor and kill yourself.

Just before I left for college, TRP called me and informed me that we were to go out with a bang before we both left for school. Whenever, during our youth, a time arose to celebrate or party, TRP would suggest one and only one possible place to have a good time, the strip club. Experiences past and the voices of reason always suggested against such a place, predominantly because I have no self control when it comes to alcohol and paying for tits in my face.

Most of our friends had already left for school so it was down to three of us: TRP, Meade and myself. We collectively decided to go to the least admired, however, easiest to enter club. The Crystal Palace, as it was called, was an establishment that screamed of the Chucky Cheese and Discovery Zone’s of old. It was an adult play-land adorned with the black-light carpets and neon signs commonly found in roller-rinks packed with 12-year-old boys looking to cop a feel and 12-year-old girls who have no idea what copping a feel entails. In order to get there we had to drive through a city that boasted one of the highest crime rates in the country, East Saint Louis. A time not long before we decided to make our descent into the wasteland that is East Saint Louis, the mayor came out and stated that people should not stop at stop signs or stop lights at night in fear of robbery or murder; a small price to pay to see breasts. The only feasible way to find our way through East Saint Louis was drunk and we had no problem figuring that out; one task down.

Crossing the river and arriving in East Saint Louis could be compared to something out of The Lord of the Rings. The smoke and ash of decayed society rose from the abandoned buildings and lost hope of the East Side. The Missouri River, which separates a land of rational and high moral code from the dregs of another place consumed by rats waiting to steal your car and money so they can go see tits, was far behind us as we trudged deeper and deeper into the doldrums of East Saint Louis. After being lost for nearly an hour I had to piss so I told TRP to stop the car, and he did so in the middle of the road. Seeing no reason why this wasn’t a great idea I released right there with the passerby thinking nothing of it. This was shocking to me but no more shocking than peeing on a dead animal.

We arrived at The Crystal Palace fully lubricated and disease free and were hoping to leave that way. I used my fake id and much to the chagrin of my friends it worked. While they were left drinking soda I spent well over 50 dollars feeding an intoxication that well past staying in the conscious field. I sat down at a table and witnessed the stripper unfold on stage. Jasmine, tossed her sweaty, loose body around, leaving snail streaks of malady stricken vagina sludge and re-wetted sweat from her previous dances all over the place. If I wasn’t choking back the alcohol in my stomach I was fighting off the bile as I felt the sting of the gathering vomit tickling the back of my nostrils. Jasmine slithered from the stage and I felt the air of relief for a brief moment before DJ Crazy Dave came back on the loud speaker.

DJ Crazy Dave: “Next up on the center stage we have the voluptuous Aries. She’s not shy so don’t be shy about throwing money her way. Don’t forget to tip the waitress and aeointeageoabaobadby.”

As in the typical strip club DJ fashion, DJ Crazy Dave had gone off on some crazy rant about something no one could understand or cared to listen to. His voice faded away into the ear piercing music of Aerosmith’s “Love in an Elevator.” All of a sudden Meade and TRP became restless.

Meade: “Dude I’m losing my buzz. I need to settle my nerves.”
TRP: “Yeah go to the car and get the rest of the booze.”

Assuming that it would be a relatively simple task I accepted, grabbed my glass and headed toward the door. Halfway out of the door a giant tattooed ape looking creature grabbed me and threw me into a wall.

Mike: “Holy shit Kong.”
Ape Looking Bouncer: “You can’t take that FUCKING glass outside.” He then pointed his finger in my face and curled his top lip.

The glass fell from my hand and smashed on the ground. He looked down at the shattered glass as I slipped behind him back towards my friends.

Mike: “No go guys; Ape Creature won’t let me leave with a glass.”
TRP: “Put it in your mouth.”
Mike: “What?”
TRP: “Go to the car, put as much liquor in your mouth as possible, come back to the table and spit it into a cup.

I wobbled back and forth contemplating the idea. It seemed like a good idea, but in order to know if it would work I would need a reference. I started to plug numbers in my brain. In the past I had kept liquor in my mouth sometimes in an excess of 5 seconds. I would gag a little but there was never a problem. A simple mathematical equation was needed to find if I could carry out the task.

The amount of time I held liquor in my mouth in the past would be the constant “p”. With 5 seconds being the maximum time I had held liquor, “p” would be 5. However, different levels of drunkenness can allow a person to hold liquor for different amounts of time. A scale of 1 to 10 would be devised in order to assess Current Level of Drunkenness, 1 being buzzed and 10 being Courtney-Love-Drunk. So the level of drunkenness “x” would be multiplied by “p”.

It takes about .7 seconds to cover 10 feet walking briskly and the distance to the car was roughly 300 feet and the door to the table was 70 feet. By multiplying .7 by the number of feet divided by 10 we get “n”. However, additional time would need to be added in order to account for locking the car, not being able to walk in a straight line and dealing with doorknobs and other confusing obstructions. A separate scale needed to be devised in order to figure out how much time would be added to the original walking time, so the second scale of drunkenness would be proportional to the Current State of Drunkenness Scale, but would need to be multiplied by the expected time “n”; this scale was called The Error Expected Due to Drunkenness scale and was represented by “y”. Another test was used to find “y”. The idea was simple; all I had to do was count to 20. If I counted to 20 with no problems and was somewhere within the vicinity of 20 seconds ± 5 seconds then I gave myself a 1. If I had trouble counting to 20 or eventually reached 20 but somewhere outside of the 20 ± 5 limit I gave myself a 1.5. If I never reached 20 or forgot what I was doing I gave myself a 2. So the time to get from the car to the table would likely be greater once the operative error was added, therefore, the following equation was devised,
(xp ≥ yn > .7 x (370/10)), As long as “xp” was greater than or equal to “yn” I would be fine. However, if “yn” was greater I would puke and the entire effort would go to waste. Being that I was in the state of mind to have a boxing match with myself I gave myself a 10 on the Current State of Drunkenness Scale. I tried to count to 20 and ended up at -3 so I gave myself a 2 on The Error Expected Due to Drunkenness scale. My equation looked like this ((10)5 ≥ (2)n > .7 x 37) In the end my equation yielded this answer
(50 ≥ 59.2 > .7 x 37). As you can see 50 is not greater than 59.2 but my friend’s numbers were worse than mine so it was decided that I was the most fit for the task. Of course I knew I could tough out the small percentage that was the difference between puking and a successful endeavor.

I nodded to TRP and embarked on my journey. I walked past the bouncer for the second time with my hands out in front of my face, showing him I didn’t have any glasses. This time I left without incident, “that’s right bitch,” I muttered once I was out of earshot.

I scanned the parking lot looking for the car. I began to pace and realized that I had no idea where the car was. The urge to piss enveloped my senses so I took a break from finding the car to release. I found a patch of bushes and pulled out my greatness. I looked up at the stars as the warm sensation of pouring out gallons of piss filled my body. I looked down to put away my piece but it was nowhere to be found. I looked into my right hand, my gun hand, and saw my belt resting comfortably between my fingers. Then I looked at my unzipped pants, and the giant wet spot that covered enough area to land a helicopter on. The only reaction I could muster was a chuckle, which was quickly interrupted by a rustle in the bushes.

Mike: “WhatthefuckI’llkillyou”
Bush Creature: “Mrrruuaaahhh”

I kicked at the bush and sat screaming when a raccoon the size of a small town poked his head out.

Bush Creature: “What the fuck are you looking at?”

I swear to this day it was a talking fucking raccoon; he was tough. He looked me right in the face and talked. I turned around to run and slammed directly into our car. Not only had I unknowingly found the car, but I now had a safe haven from the human sized raccoon. I sat in the diver’s seat rubbing my pants ferociously, trying to dry up the puddle in my pants. After realizing there was no help for my pants or my dignity, I picked up the bottle of alcohol from the passenger seat and began pouring it in my face. One thing I had not accounted for was the restrictive cap on this particular bottle’s opening, which led to a much longer pour than I had originally anticipated. My nose was already burning by the time my mouth was full.

I capped the bottle and tried to find the door handle. I couldn’t fucking find it. After an eternity I found the handle and flung the door open with such a force it came flying back and hit me directly in the face, causing me to spit out a substantial amount of liquor and swallow most of the rest. I spat the remainder onto the ground and went back into the car for round two. This time I took the restrictive cap off, but didn’t make the necessary adjustment needed to drink the faster flow. Liquor came flying out of the bottle all over may face and up my nose. I was not going to fuck up this time, so I threw the open bottle back into the car, kicked the door closed and began running inside.

One mundane detail I neglected was that running requires respiration, but a mouth and nose full of liquor greatly inhibits that ability. Not only could I not breathe, but the liquor kept sliding down my throat. I finally made it to the door and burst through, giving a quick “what’s up gesture” to the bouncer. Immediately after passing him I felt the urge. Out of nowhere my stomach decided that it had had enough. I felt the flow coming and did the only thing I could think of, held my hand over my mouth. For all of you who don’t know what happens when you put your hand over your mouth when you puke I’ll say this, get a water balloon full of beef stew and throw it against a brick wall as hard as you can, then you get a small idea of what this was like. An explosion of vomit flew from my face and hit everything within a ten-mile radius. I heard screams coming from all around but kept walking as if nothing had happened.

Whenever doing something that goes against societies standards or involves something illegal it has been pounded into my head time and time again to “never look back,” but I had to see what I had just done. My face practically melted off when I saw my dinner making a new home on the entire body of a sprawled out stripper and a lovely couple that was previously enjoying their night. I quickly turned back, not breaking stride. Covered in piss and vomit, I finally arrived at the table.

Before my friends could ask I spit the remainder of the puke/liquor into a cup and sprinted toward the bathroom. I kicked open the stall door and started puking before I even saw the toilet. The only gesture that could possibly capture what that escapade of puking entailed would be getting kicked in the nuts while throwing up. I scream puked and thrashed my head all about the stall. I could have beaten that little girl for the part in The Exorcist from that puke alone. I found the toilet and buried my face in a pile of shit. Why can’t people ever flush their shit down the toilet? With no time or energy left to flush the fresh stew of toilet paper and corn laden shit sludge in the toilet, I added to the mess with a few more pushes of vomit that sent the shit/puke water splashing into my face. Completely tattered and covered in every bodily fluid imaginable I laid down and cradled the toilet.

I must have fallen asleep for some time because I awoke to someone violently kicking my feet. Looking down at my feet, I saw the face of what could only have been an extremely drunken truck driver with a stomach virus. He was yelling curse words at me I no idea existed. I looked about and realized I was huddled around the bottom of the toilet, sleeping in some unknown liquid with my feet sticking out of the stall and an angry truck driver kicking my legs. I stood up and opened the door to see a line of angry drunken perverts who needed to shit. Every face of every person in there turned white when they saw me and what wonderful things I had done to the bathroom stall. I blankly walked passed them and out of the bathroom. I’m sure one of them would have kicked the shit out of me if they weren’t in complete awe at the unbelievably grotesque creature I had turned into. I think they actually felt sorry for me. Getting sympathy from some of the lowest class of human beings is a hard feat to accomplish, but if it can be done you had better believe Mike Carpenter could do it. Chalk one up for me.

The faces of my complacent friends were in sight as I left the bathroom. As stealthily as I could muster, I tip toed my way back to the table. I looked down and saw two disgusting brutes that called themselves women stroking the legs and wallets of my friends.

Mike: “Getmethefuckoutofheeeere!”
Stripper: “OH-MY-GOD!”
TRP: “What happened to you?”
Mike: “Getmethefuckoutofheeeere!”
TRP: “Dude you have the keys.”
Mike: “Uuuullltttthhh”

I have no recollection of the conversation but TRP told me I just sat there and drooled all over myself for about a minute and then left the club. An hour later TRP found me in the car with the a/c cranked and me passed out with my mouth over the vent. Somehow I woke up in my bed the next morning. And as far as hangovers go, I’d rather get kicked in the nuts by a 10 foot tall lumberjack on steroids than have another hangover like that. All in all I’m glad I survived, and if there is a lesson to be learned….well there really isn’t a lesson, just don’t be an idiot I suppose.