Seppo Down Under

Scotch is my nemesis....
or the earlier version working title: 21 and dumb as a box of chicken beaks
or: If I died, I would have already been embalmed (with Scotch, so no open flames around my casket)

There have been approximately 3 times in my life when I was beyond the point of "sensible consumption" of alcohol. I have been tipsy, drunk, blotto, rat-arsed. etc on many occasions, but these particular 3 were the ones where it takes you a week to recover and for all intents and purposes, you should have been in the ER getting a stomach pumping. I may eventually get around to telling the story of the other 2, as they happened within the stint of about a year during my first habitation of Australia, but this story will be about fateful #1...."The Scotch Incident". Now I must say I hate it when people compare drunk stories, or brag about how drunk they got last weekend and how they spewed all over someone's car/house/shoes/etc. Notable accomplishment, fella! But this story helps to define my aversion to a certain alcoholic substance. Really the only one I will no longer touch. I'm not proud of my effort, but it's a bit amusing now (ten years past).

So ask yourself, what is the definition of silky-smooth cool at the local "uptown" watering hole (you know, the cocktail bar where a beer costs $7 and they actually make a chocolate martini)? To me, it's the well-maintained, successful, Hugo Boss wearing 40-something (but looks 29) fellow gliding across the floor in his Italian shoes to order up a single malt Scotch on the rocks. Well, I'll never be that guy. One, when I'm 40, I'll look 50 and feel 60. Two, I'll be the guy in a plain Fruit of the Loom T-shirt ordering a draft beer in a plastic cup. Three, I probably wouldn't be in that joint (as I probably wouldn't be allowed in wearing said T-shirt) and they don't have pool tables and puddles of beer/spit/urine on the floor and a toothless fat woman cackling in the corner while busting her floppy boobies out at everyone who walks in. Four, Scotch makes me ILL (and I'm not talkin Beastie Boy ill...I mean stomach churning ill). I was not one of the unlucky people who were born with an alcohol allergy. My Scotch-induced malaise was of my own doing...actually not me personally, as I blame "the giant".

Rewind 10+ years...

I'm all excited...the good 'ole 21st B-day is coming up and the guys have decided to throw a party that weekend. Not necessarily for my birthday, but it is around the same time, so I'll take it. Right before the party commences at "the baseball house", my good friend Jules brings me my birthday gift...a pouch of Redman Golden Blend. Oh Jules, how sweet of you to indulge my tobacco habit...the good stuff, too. No Taylors Pride or Beech-Nut...she went for the holy grail of leaf tobaccos. So I stroll to the party, girlfriend and female friend in tow. The usual cast of characters is there. The inhabitants of the baseball house (strangely, though, the house was actually only 2 baseball players, and 2 non baseball players, but was the "baseball house"...probably because there was a swimmers house and runners house where actual swimmers and runners lived) the rest of the team, and the baseball supporters/friends/groupies. So I stroll in and draw my first cup of brew from the keg...frosty! I sit in a big, cushy chair by the door, with my lady on one leg and my female friend on the other(they were roommates, so it was kind of OK); a beer in one hand and a spitter in the other hand and a big wad of Redman nestled in my cheek. I now know what Jabba the Hut felt like when he had Princess Leia as his chamber slave and he's watching Han Solo be cast in Carbonite. I was the king of the castle. I was Henry the 8th, perched upon my throne (except I didn't order the beheadings of anybody). When I needed a beer, the missus would get it. But as a mighty water balloon reaches it's height of trajectory before plummeting to it's soakingly tragic doom, I was due to crash miserably and leave a trail of wet, messy horror in my wake.

The binge drinking started shortly after I arrived and purveyed my might kingdom from atop my righteous perch. The first initiatory chug was instigated by my friend Dial. He decreed that every time he pointed at me, I would have to take a healthy slug of my beer. Fair enough. I am a king of the people, and will do my faithful duty to serve them and meet their wishes. Chug chug. Spit tobacco. Chug chug, burp. Lovely...doing my kingly duties. A half hour later, apparently a messenger of the cardinal would show up, because my stately powers would diminish with my liver. Enter 7ft Rob.

Rob is 7ft tall. He used to play professional basketball in Europe until he blew out his knees. Now he hangs with baseball players as the older and much more foreboding character while working on an engineering degree (oh yeah, we're all engineering students so we would be a little smart). So Rob walks in, "what's up Fleet?" Smile and ....ooh Dial is pointing at me from across the room Chug, spit tobacco. "Nothing". The duke of the shire (Mikey) for which I am overseeing this evening walks up to Rob. "It's Fleet's 21st, do your worst"(fateful words that still ring in my ears like the haunting sound of something mildly more threatening than a small kitten with a bad disposition). I'm not really sure why Rob was the judge, jury, and executioner. I think maybe it was because he was a liege of the holy robe or something else that appoints him immediate power to rule over the kings of the land...or because he's really tall and has hands the size of dinner plates and a voice that could make concrete crawl away. So I am plucked from my throne for a trip to the kitchen. Up to the cabinet above the stove. Enter the black knight to my Lancelot...a cheap bottle of Scotch Whiskey. I am not sure of the brand. It had a bird on it, and I notice a price tag of $11.75....not single malt apparently. The rules are the same as with Dial, but instead of being a good leader to my people, I am a donkey being led up a steep hill by a barbwire leash....point, drink....you know the rules....frown. The next couple of hours are the fun bit of the story.

Point, swig, wince, repeat. The guys had a grand idea for the party. They would mount a strobe light and a video camera in the basement, with a live feed to the bigscreen upstairs. Dance music in the basement, chillin' music, bullshitting, and darts upstairs. This live feed and camera would later compliment my apparent Scotch-induced exhibitionism. So early in the game, it changes from hide from Rob and drink when he eventually finds me, to a seek and destroy mission where I would find him and take a swig from my bottle just for spite. Shortly after this point, I would end up in the basement, performing for the camera. Blurriedly I look around...ooh, camera. Music. Prime setting for a striptease. So, I proceed to peel off my clothing in a provocative manner, my poor girlfriend collecting the items as I free my assets. At one point, another girl looks at her and and asks, "Are you going to let him do this?". The GF just shrugs and continues picking up clothing and holding my beloved bottle of sweet, sweet death. I never got to full monty. Even blind drunk, I have a shred of humility, a spot of decency, and a bit of humbleness. Good time to put my clothes back on I guess and head back upstairs.

The limited mental photographs I would collect after the strip would include me walking up to people and proudly displaying the amount of Scotch I had consumed in roughly an hour. I would point to the top, and slide my finger down the bottle (with accompanying sound effects) to the point about an inch from the bottom....yes you read that right. Almost a fifth (750mL) of Scotch in about an hour. Then, I would roll around the floor giggling like a cracked-out, Tourette's syndrome stricken orangutan. Then, a surly gurgle in my tummy alerts me that maybe it is time to work my way carefully to the door. Uh oh, no longer a gurgle...now a mild explosion. Throw hand over mouth and run, don't walk to the nearest exit. Porch, air, release! Projectile regurgitation of Scotch (oh how I hate thee). Sit down and rest. Pass out sitting against the house.

The next thing I recall is being pinned between the toilet and the bath tub in the upstairs bathroom of the house. My poor GF is in between me and the bath tub, trying to keep me from either drowning in the toilet or suffering a concussion by slamming my head against the porcelain as I drift in and out of consciousness between bouts of dry heaves. Lights on, chuck chuck...bile, blood (less than optimal). Lights out...smack. Lights on.."I'm sorry...curse loudly", heave. Lights out...no smack (caught me in time). My best guess is this went on for about an apologetic hour or so. Big points to the GF for putting up with this and still choosing to talk to me the next day. My next conscious recollection is waking up on the couch downstairs. Mikey and Nate sitting in their respective regular places in their boxers watching Sports Center and eating cereal. It is now Sunday, and we have a scrimmage game this afternoon. I pop up, feeling quite good actually. I start the 2 block walk home, wondering how the hell I got upstairs to begin with, and moreso how I got back downstairs because the guys had gone to bed before I was finished with my "episode" upstairs (I remember them saying that). I do remember several people checking in on me/GF and just shaking their heads, "Happy Birthday" they would say, or just "Is he going to die?" as they peeked through the bathroom door.

I'm one block into the walk and I don't feel so well now. This is going to be the hangover your momma warns you about, and you have a scrimmage game in about 3 hours. Need food. Needless to say, I did not feel at all well at the game. I was standing in right field, the sun hitting my face, breathing heavily, trying not to fertilize the grass with the contents of my breakfast. Eggs and waffles would not help the grass grow. Game over, sleep for 18 hours.

So thats why I don't drink Scotch. Now you know. I think Scotch tape is one of the most wonderful inventions of our time, Scotch filets are tasty, the Scotch people are friendly, Scotch whiskey, though, is the liquid embodiment of the antichrist.