A few weeks ago I wrote an entire post lamenting about my lack of coolness. You know, my inability to party like the college student I used to be...
Hahaha, hahaha. Guess who's back?
I'm here to tell you that Saturday night, two days ago, during an impromptu visit to Pullman... bitch could hang. As a matter of fact, bitch hung out all night, drinking and laughing and dancing with the best of them (and by the best of them I mean the people who never forgot how to hang, aka my friends).
And since Saturday night brought me back to my roots, Sunday, naturally, was quite possibly one of the worst days of my life. Evidently I can drain bottles like it's nobody's business, but eventually reality sets in, my BAC drops, and I spend the rest of the day vomiting, sneering, crying, shuddering and cursing the day I met alcohol and subsequently fell in love.
It all started with a call from my dear friend, we'll refer to her as 'Maci'... as in we all refer to her as 'Maci'. Some people assume it's her real name. It's not.
Anyway, this 'Maci' calls me, and asks if I'd like to go to Pullman with her for the night. I thought, why the hell not? She said 'fall things' were on the agenda, so being the naive, lame person that I've grown to be, I figured we would go to dinner, carve some pumpkins, and maybe, if we were feeling really adventurous, we'd go to a haunted house. I should mention that I don't like haunted houses, I don't enjoy things grabbing at me or screaming at me or jumping out at me... spurts of terror-induced adrenaline coursing through my veins is for some reason unbeknownst to me, not my idea of a good time... so going to a haunted house was quite a stretch.
It seems that I needn't have worried. The words 'haunted house' were never uttered, though, the words 'round of tequila shots', were. Twice. And we all know that's just as frightening.
The night began with a walk up to Dupus Boomer's, WSU's only full bar that's legitimately on campus. I should have known that the minute we decided to forgo vehicular transportation, that we were in for a long night. Evidently we all had the foresight to know that no one would be in shape to get behind a wheel... though I probably could have been issued a citation for man-handling my wheel-y suitcase up B-street later that night... but that's neither here nor there.
At Dupus, we by-passed the 20 person line and walked straight into the bar, sitting down for mugs of hefeweizen and Blue Moon, ridiculously large margaritas, and what almost looked like double-shots of Jose, (they ran out of Pancho, so we had to make do...). Someone even ordered gator bites... and while they didn't taste like chicken, I'm not so sure they tasted like swamp, either.
After dinner and drinks, we meandered out of the CUB, singing the chorus of 'Who Let the Dogs Out', jumping on statues and, for some reason, quoting the Green Street Hooligans, mostly by yelling "FUCKING WANKER" in a British accent to anyone who'd listen... Our (or I should say the boys, as I generally decline to yell 'wanker' in anyones direction... I'm pretty sure) revelry was especially disconcerting to two boys of the brethren wearing their letters across the street, and the night almost became a little more interesting... but they were scared of our (again, not me, I just like the camaraderie I feel when I use pronouns) cool accents, obviously, so they backed off.
We shuffled into the Coug, put some Johnny Cash, Bob Marley and Nirvana (quite a threesome, I know) on the juke box, and immediately tucked into three Boone's passes and five pitchers of Pullman water (Busch Light...). I should also mention there were six of us... aka, we did work.
It was when we cheered (loudly) for ASU's last touchdown that we seemed to have alerted the staff to our presence, and one of the bartenders decided to come over for a chat. She draped herself over one of my friends, who we will refer to as 'My Man', and looked up at the screen, asking what happened. Now, a lot of people know and love 'My Man', so I thought nothing of this sign of affection, though in my wildest dreams I never expected the next turn of events... As I was about to explain, someone in our party, we'll call him 'Kriegs' stood, and yelled in her face, "NACHO BITCH!"
My tongue nearly fell out of my mouth.
As some of you may, or may not know, 'Nacho Bitch' is practically famous amongst my group of friends. Legend has it that 'My Man' was once eating, you guessed it, nachos at one of the local watering holes, when he happened to procure some cheesy residue upon his face. The girl he was probably trying to wheel at the moment alerted him to this fact, and, rather than hand him a napkin... licked it off of his cheek. At least, that's what I heard through the grapevine, aka my drunk friends who played witness to the incident. She was then dubbed 'Nacho Bitch', and has since lived on in what I assumed was, practically fictionalized, over-exaggerated infamy.
But lo-and-behold, 'Nacho Bitch' was alive and not so well, as she seemed a little perturbed to finally realize her nickname. She assured us that she had a real name, and to that I thought, no shit, we didn't think your parents named you after an encounter with a spicy Mexican appetizer. But I kept my mouth shut as she also informed us that she could, and I quote, "cut you off and kick you out if you piss me off." At least she lived up to part of her nickname...
After the 'Nacho Bitch' left us to our own devices, the Coug began to fill with its usual crowd of ne'er-do-well fun-havers, and though we love the place, we decided to skip along to the Club, known as Mike's, to cap off the night. Some people call it Stubblefields, but that's only if they're lame (and I was not, for one night only, so I obviously had to refer to it as Mike's).
As soon as we walked into 'the Club', I knew something was amiss. I could see the floor. I could obtain space at the bar, and if I wanted to, a table near it as well. The bartender could hear my normal-decibeled (I know it's not a word) plea for a vodka soda with extra limes... which begged the question: Where are all the loud, obnoxious drunks? Were we the only ones?
We bought our drinks, deciding to tempt fate by making a purchase off the specials board- a double Captain and Sprite that they advertised as tasting 'like a cream soda!!' With fear and trepidation, we took a sip, and to our great surprise, it did! Of course, I was two margaritas, one tequila shot, three boones passes and countless cups of Busch Light deep at that point, so my judgement may have been ever-so-slightly impaired.
We sauntered down to the lower level, where I once again, stood in shock and awe, and had to ask, "Where are all the drunks?"
There was only one grossly overly PDA-ing couple in sight, the poles and boxes were devoid of inebriated girls, and there was room to move. We could have square-danced, if the idea happened upon us. Thank God it didn't, because I'm sure not one of us would have thought it to be anything less than a superb suggestion.
After another round of double Captain and Sprites, tequila shots, and one 151-infused 'surprise' concoction, courtesy of my favorite Mike's bartender- the place started to fill up. Unfortunately, DJ Goldfinger wasn't spinning, so there were no random "BITCH!" chants through-out any of the songs, but all in all it was a great night. I don't actually remember the rest of it, but I'm pretty sure it was fun.
I think we walked home, though I'm unsure of the route, or who 'we' entails. I had a suitcase, I think, and I struggled in wheeling it back to Providence Court, though it would seem I eventually got there.
Waking up the next morning around 10, I spent a few hours on the bathroom floor, you know, just hanging out. My friends asked if I was dead, to which I replied, with conviction, "Yes."
As I had to work later that night, (fuck my life, right?), we had to head home immediately, even though I was in no shape to drive, ride, or live. But 'Maci' only had to pull over twice, and I only felt like death during 98% of the trip... Sure, I swore off drinking in my nauseated, head-aching state, and yeah, I briefly fantasized about throwing myself out of the car... but greatness comes at a price, you know?
I guess what I'm trying to say is, killer hangover and shoddy recollection of the previous nights' events be damned... being a true 'Coug', and by that I mean drunk, is always worth it.
GO COUGS!
Check back in next week, because I'll probably have tons of fun sober stories. Not possible, you say? Oxy-moron?
Yeah. You're probably right.
