A night to dismember

Can I get you something to nibble on? Some pizza shooters, shrimp poppers, or extreme fajitas? / No, just one of everything on the drink menu. / Oh. Sounds like someone has a case of the weekdays.

One time I was given some really good advice from another blogger. “Don’t make it about yourself.”

“Ah,” I responded. “Blogging tips. I love those.”

“What? No! This is no tip. I’m just trying to do the world a favor.”

Ahhhh. Well played!

I’m here to tell you that the truth hurts. And that I’m about to break that rule and talk about myself, perhaps for the first time ever. (What are the odds?)

If you’ve eaten in the last two hours this is your chance to get away. You would be well-advised to not make the jump.

Sometime I'll tell the story about the night of Cujo, Spanish Fly and Windex. It's humiliating so I can't wait. @GingerSnaap37 #DrinkNames

— Tom B. Taker (@shoutabyss) May 10, 2012

I’m going to tell the story. This goes without saying, but yes, this is a true story. I’m going to give it to you and I’m going to give it you straight. Why would anyone make up shit like this?

It was a sunny and beautiful day a long, long time ago…

My mates and I worked in manufacturing in the big city. About a mile away from the plant was a Bennigan’s situated in the parking lot of a super mall. If you want to go drinking, trust me on this. Nothing beats the libations of a chain restaurant located in a scenic shopping mall parking lot. It’s sublime.

My mates and I worked the #1 shift. Back then that typically meant 7am until 3:30 in the afternoon. That is, by far, my all-time favorite shift. Also nice is 6am to 2:30. Since work has never been the highlight of my day, the beauty of the #1 shift is that you friggin’ get it over with. Then you are free to enjoy the rest of the day.

By far the worst shift of all time is the #2 shift.  That’s when you work something like 4pm to 12:30 in the morning. Gads, that’s horrible. Since I’m utterly unable to adjust my sleep patterns, the shift wreaks living hell upon my existence. Worse, the entire day is tainted and, with work looming, I just sit, immobilized, unable to perform any life functions. The #2 shift literally made me physically ill and there has never been a day in my life I ever got used to it.

But anyway, the time of this story is during the heady days of the #1 shift. The good old days. It was our practice to get off work and meet up at the Bennigan’s down the street. They had $1 draft beers. What a bargain! Normally we’d knock a few back, nibble on some bar kibble, then split up in time to live our evening lives.

The next morning we’d be back at work to do it all over again. Wash, rinse, repeat. It was a nice routine.

This particular Bennigan’s is also known as the scene of the crime where I put enough money in the jukebox to play an entire Clint Black album. (My signature move.) Every single song. Man, it sure was a hoot playing innocent with the rest of them in faux anger. “When I get my hands on the son of a bitch who played this shit!!” LOL! They never suspected it was me. Good times.

We were on a first-name basis with our bartender. His name was Zack and we got to know him pretty well. One day instead of a booth in the bar we saddled up to the bar and sat on stools instead. I decided that was enough of a departure to try something radically different.

“Zack,” I said. “I want to try something different tonight. What I want is a random drink followed by another random drink. No beers tonight! I don’t care what the fuck it is as long as I never taste the same drink twice.”

Amazingly enough, Zack was agreeable to the plan. He plopped a blue drink in front of my face. Good form dictated a brief discussion about the libation.

“What, pray tell, do you call this?” I asked.

“It’s called a Windex.”

“Ah. Indeed. Never heard of it.” Then I proceeded to make my glass squeaky clean.

My memory of that night is somewhat distant, but I seem to remember my mates commenting about the foolishness of my plan. If memory serves, it was some arcane advice about never mixing drinks. I, of course, totally ignored their advice.

“Hit me,” I ordered Zack, and he placed something completely different in front of me.

“It’s called a Cujo.”

I was delighted. To this day I have absolutely no idea what’s in a Cujo but I certainly loved the name. “Okay, I’ll bite,” I said as I mauled another one down.

Next came a Spanish Fly. Again I have no idea. But again I was thrilled. Zack was doing a fantastic job. He was making all my dreams come true.

Those are literally the only three drink names I remember from that night. But I do know I drank quite a few more. I really have no idea how many.

I also remember that at some point I got up from the bar, told my mates I’d be right back, then headed for the restroom.

That’s where my memories end.

The events for the remainder of evening were filled in by my good buddies the next day. (Emphasis on good.)

They continued to drink for a while after I left. At some point they because curious about my whereabouts. They decided to look for me. They found me in the bathroom. (Smart thinking.)

I’ll try to put this as delicately as I can. I was poised atop the porcelain seat, in a stall, with the door locked, and my pants around my ankles. I was also completely passed out.

There. I said it.

These guys were pros. Apparently one of them slithered under the door to join me. He pushed the little slider over, freeing the door, and got me out. He released me from my self-imposed and drunken exile. Thank God that night he didn’t leave a man behind.

The rest of the story is pretty basic. (Again, this is all based on eyewitness accounts.) Somehow they got my pants back on. They carried me out and took me to my apartment where I lived alone. They put me in bed, tucked me in, locked my door, then threw my keys on my balcony.

So. That’s pretty much it. I have debased myself for your amusement. I hope you enjoyed it. Thus we come to the end of the story about the night I’ll never remember. I’m just glad someone was there to tell me how it all turned out.

Zack, if you’re out there, I miss you, my friend! I want a receipt for that night. I’d very much like to know about the damage I did. The next round’s on me!