Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

You Know You’ve Had A Good Night When…

Written By: Humor Mike - Mar• 23•12

So, have you ever woke up in the bathroom of a strange home, in nothing but your boxer briefs, so that you could throw up in front of an unidentified and slightly judgmental dog? No? Me either. But let’s just pretend I did for a quick moment, shall we? But remember, this is all hypothetical and only partially 100% true. To protect the identity of the individual that this actually happened to, I’ll just say it happened to me. As opposed to writing, “David woke up to find someone else’s gym sock in his mouth,” I’ll instead use, “I woke up to find someone else’s gym sock in my mouth.” Don’t forget that this is only partially, kind of, 100% true, in an alleged sort of way. Understand?

Last Friday, my job had a team-building function where they rented out a private portion of the local bowling alley just for the finance team. It was awesome. First of all, there was free food and drinks, and you know my motto: If it’s free, it’s for me. Now, some people may raise an eyebrow at the idea of having drinks at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, but not me, of course. Unlike the dog that would witness me puking up a week’s worth of meals later on that night, I’m not judgmental. It has always been my belief that a man should have a gin and tonic first thing in the morning if he chooses. Preferably before work like other people. Trust me, more people are doing it than you know. Most people who say they are drinking coffee first thing in the morning should be using air quotes as they say “coffee.”

That noted, I thought nothing of starting off the bowling outing with a Blue Motorcycle, which is a mixture of gin, tequila, vodka, rum, and some other cool stuff that make the drink blue. Hey, don’t judge me. At least it was 2 in the afternoon. It wasn’t like it was 1 o’clock. And this is all hypothetical, remember? After scoring 101 points during my first game, I decided to treat myself to a second drink and several shots before starting the next game. For some reason, I didn’t do as well that time. I only scored 80 points, which was due to the massive number of gutter balls I rolled and certainly NOT because I’d had about five drinks by then. Scientists will one day read this and blame it on the alcohol because the number of gutter balls increased with each drink I had, but I refuse to believe it. If there are two things that we Michaels do well, they are blogging at infrequent rates, and holding our liquor.

After we were done bowling, I was all prepared to go home like a good person should have such an event. It was already 4 PM on a Friday, way past my bed time. But before I could make it to my car, a few of my coworkers came up with the idea that we should go to a local bar for a few hours to wind down. Because I had nothing else planned but to watch Netflix with my fish for the rest of the evening, I reluctantly agreed. That was the beginning of the end. If only my mother had’ve let me watch some of those after school specials on TV, I wouldn’t have succumb to peer pressure and spent the night clutching someone’s toilet bowl.

From what I remember about the bar, I believe I enjoyed myself in the beginning. There were about five us in attendance when someone—I swear it wasn’t me—brought up the idea of having a few more shots. After confirming that I could still count to 10 and someone else was paying for the shots, I agreed. Three or four hours and just as many shots later, an assortment of drinks were brought to our table and a warm Jose Cuervo shot landed in front of me. I should have known by the way my coworkers quickly grabbed all the other more user-friendly drinks, that I’d suffer for having slower hands later. As soon as Jose and Cuervo began doing the Mexican Hat Dance in my tummy, darkness began to take over me.

I woke up in the restroom. Not the bathroom that I’d end up in later on that night, but the one at the bar. I’d locked myself in the one stall they had available. Someone was calling my name and asking if I was ok. I had no idea how I got there. After assuring the person that I was ok and that I would be out in “2 minutes,” I went back to sleep. I’d later learn that I’d been in there for over an hour, which left people pretty pissed. And since I was holding up the only stall in the men’s room, I mean that literally.

When I woke up again, I was in an unfamiliar bed. I had no idea how I had made it out of the stall and into someone’s car, bus, or plane, and then ended up in that person’s bed. I could tell the person was lying beside me and I wondered who it was. Had Oprah heard one of her lost children calling out for help and she came and saved me from the bathroom of a bar in Gaithersburg, MD? Had I somehow managed to send Barack a drunken text in the middle of the night and he sent the Secret Service to ensure I’d made it to the White House safely? I hadn’t had time to figure out who my guardian angel was before I realized why I had woken up: I was puking—in Oprah’s or Barack’s bed.

Somehow I found my way to the restroom where the puke-ation continued. After what seemed like an eternity, I removed my head from the toilet bowl to notice that I hadn’t shut the door completely. If that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I then realized that I was being watched. It was Loki, my cowoker’s dog, and he wasn’t too happy about the mess I was making. I could tell by the way he tilted his head in a manner that let me know he was wondering if I were crazy. After petting him for a bit and making him promise not to tell, I started to feel better about the evening’s events. I was safe. I was with friends. But then I realized I wasn’t wearing socks. You may not know this about me, but I don’t like feet—not even my own. If I could trade them in for two more hands and attach them to my ankles, I would. I never take off my socks. Not even in the shower. And definitely not at the pool. Never!

After pondering what happened to my socks, I learned that they weren’t the only articles of clothing that I was missing. I had on no shirt. I had on no pants. I had on no undershirt. Too scared to look, I slowly reached down to see if there was at least a piece of fabric or a loin cloth covering my who-who. I’d never been so happy in my life to feel the cotton of my boxer briefs that kept me from being completely naked while hugging the porcelain throne of my coworker’s bathroom. That’s when I learned that cotton really is the fabric of our lives. However, my happiness was only temporary as I wondered whether I’d taken off my clothes at my coworker’s house, or whether I’d relieved myself of them at the bar. Immediately, I threw up again.

When I woke up the following morning still hugging the toilet, I surveyed the damage and tried to clean up as quickly as I could. Unfortunately, the shower curtain could not be saved. It would have to be burned. I would later learn that my coworker replaced many of the items that didn’t survive my wrath that night. The plunger. The trash can. The scale. The tub. And the washbowl. All of it had to go. She calls her new bathroom the Michael Renovation. I’m embarrassed and flattered.

Before I realized what was happening, I found myself having a conversation with my coworkers in the middle of the living room while I was still in my boxer briefs as if it were normal. What had happened was, I hadn’t yet mustered the courage to ask where my clothes were, so I just tried to pretend that I was not naked—even though everyone else was fully clothed. I thought that maybe if I kept the conversation interesting enough, they wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t put on lotion the previous day or done any form of man-scaping, which I believe should be a prerequisite to that level of exposure. I also hoped they wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t been to the gym in a few weeks. Unfortunately, my boxer briefs left nothing to the imagination. If they’d ever wondered, they were now certain that I didn’t have abs or buns of steel.

After one of my male coworkers had suffered enough of seeing me in my underwear, I was shown to the bedroom where my clothes were lying on the floor. As I quickly dressed, I can’t tell you how relieved I was that I hadn’t done an awkward strip tease at the bar—AGAIN. It was nice to know that I hadn’t tried to sexily pour liquid down my bare chest and then scream because that liquid was someone’s hot coffee. I was also happy to know that I didn’t pull my pants down while asking for tips before realizing that I needed to do laundry and hadn’t worn any underwear that day. Hey, it has happened to the best of us, right? No?

One of my coworkers was nice enough to drive me to my car, and I made it home safely. After I parked, I remembered that I lived on the fourth floor, so I opted to sleep in the car for a few hours before trying to tackle the steps. I mean, it was a beautiful day. Why not lie out and enjoy it? I just wish I had rolled the windows down beforehand. Maybe that would have saved me from waking up around noon not being able to breathe and sweating profusely from being so hot.

When I finally made it into my apartment, I collapsed on my couch and stayed there for the rest of the day. Later that night, I tried to drink a little Coke to put something on my stomach and I found myself right back in the bathroom spewing like a faucet—24 hours after taking the Jose Cuervo shot! That noted, the moral of this story is that if you’re going to have 10 shots in a single setting, make sure you’re wearing underwear in case you decide to give folks a strip tease. And if you’re going to do a strip tease, make sure you aren’t at a work function—or a family function. And if you do manage to drink and do a strip tease at a family or work function, you don’t have to worry about checking IDs. You already know those people, so chances are, their money is good. However, to make things less awkward, I would start thinking now about how you’re going to explain to your grandma where she should swipe her credit card.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.mikeyllo.com
Add me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1

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