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Emperor Awesome
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Spring Bender

Post by Emperor Awesome »

Wow. It has been awhile since I’ve posted. My old account was deactivated, I guess I forgot to log in for a couple few years. BUT! I come back now as I originally did nearly 10 years ago because I need a permanent place to store a story away from my sieve-like brain, and this seems like the place for it to call home. First a little recap: I’ve spent the last 5 ½ years in the navy, and since there’s friends who’ve moved, I’ve moved, and guys who got out, we got set to planning an adult spring break in Panama City Beach this past January. Many hadn’t been to college, or hadn’t been to spring break in the past decade, so it seemed like a novel idea, and far more affordable than a Vegas getaway. Like most things like this, we got about 15 enthusiastic “Fuck Yeah!”s, which whittled down to a depressing five, then four about two days before kickoff due to a bad case of strep. We were left with myself, who will be named by handle, Bandit, Snowman, and Fred. I’ve gone with the cast of Smokey and the Bandit to protect the innocent.

So no shit, there we were. We’d rented a condo on a golf resort in Panama City Beach (which – never go there/back there, I’ll explain later). I feel like the best way to go about this is chronologically, but my memory is pretty foggy because I fully committed to the bender so some bits will blend together. I assure you I’m only going to convey what I’m certain of, and hopefully going through this on paper will help me piece it together for myself as well as you. Also, quick aside: though it seems douchey, I really prefer to use a 24 hour clock when typing, and it’ll help keep this whole mess slightly more coherent.

Saturday, 5 March: Our condo rental starts, and we all make our way over via various means. Bandit lives in Ft. Walton now, so he was going to arrive the earliest, getting the keys and six cases of the cheapest beer on the market at 1700 CST. Fred would be driving in Sunday afternoon on a single shot from Dallas, and Snowman, coming off a Caribbean cruise the day before, would be driving up to sightsee Florida and pick me up at the airport at about 2100 that night.

A word about how I got to the airport, how it was the first domino to rob my week of potential, and what I learned: I, like any regular dude, stick to the tightest budget when it comes to travel expenses. I mean, you’re gonna spend money on vacation; strap me to the roof of a greyhound if it saves money getting there. I had two southwest flights to catch, 1610 from Baltimore to Nashville, a two hour layover, and then a 1930 from Nashville to PCB. I’m flying, and on vacation, so obviously I already whipped my drinking clock against the wall, springs flying everywhere. I get to the airport at 1445 because they want you there crazy early to check bags, plus I anticipated arguing my way out of an overweight charge (I’m travelling with a 1 pood kettlebell in a vain attempt to keep it together for the week). Fun fact: southwest waives overweight charges for military up to two bags, even not on orders, but at best 50% of their employees are well versed in their policies. By some providence I didn’t get any shit for my 75lb bag either way. I’m ahead of schedule, skip the line with my rockstar TSA pre-check status, shoes on, natch, and now I’ve got a solid hour to kill before boarding starts. It’d been five hours since I ate, so I stop for some fish tacos paired with two double vodka sodas.

I board the first flight and sit between some good ol’ boy ordering TJD the second drink service starts, and some lady flying down to meet her daughter for her 21st birthday. Off to a fantastic start. I always pack a one quart bag of airplane liquor, ‘cause you can, but since you can’t technically drink it on the plane, I always gauge my seatmates. Having established they’re cool, I drink four Jim Beams, and treat the dude next to me to a Crown Royal. The flight lands in Nashville two hours later and the stewardess gives us one of those “you guys…” looks when we throw the previously hidden empties in her trash. I shrug and we all have a laugh. Nashville, God bless that town, still allows smoking sections in its airport, though due to the nature of supply v. demand, they charge a $5 entry fee. I open my wallet and the guy glances my slightly exposed ID. Turns out it’s free for military. Fuck YES Nashville. I grab a quick nic fix and move onto a bar. Two hour damage: two double vodka sodas, two double Moscow mules. I remember walking to the plane. How I got on, was not ejected, and landed is all an unanswerable question. I blacked out walking to the gate. Whatever happened on the second flight is a mystery, but according to Snowman, as we were waiting for the luggage carousel everyone on my flight was just glaring at me. Or my trademark tropical red party shirt. I also don’t know if I drank the five whiskeys left in my bag or if they were confiscated, but considering I maintained a solid blackout for the two hour flight, I’m going with the former. Anyway, my memory kicks back in in fits and starts on the ride to the condo, and I guess I yelled “OH SHIT WE HAVE TO GO BACK I FORGOT MY SUITCASE!” three times. The suitcase was in the trunk the whole time. I guess every eight minutes as my short term memory reset I’d take inventory, not see my suitcase, and assume I left it at the airport. I remember the third and final instance of this, and so the panic stopped and my memory tape picks back up. We try to get to the condo, which was in a private golf resort that was clearly too nice for us, 9/10 residents were north of 65. The front gate guard gives us shit since we don’t have club wristbands (Bandit picked them up at the front office earlier that day) so I lean over and start screaming my name, how I’m on the rental agreement, a paid guest of this resort, and furthermore challenge him to fisticuffs. He threatens to call the cops, Snowman drives away and cools me off as I go on about how he cares way more about his job than he has any right to, and we meet Bandit by the back gate. We get back to the condo, which is decked out like a poor man’s version of Robin Williams’ place in The Birdcage, and I crash out soon after, about 2300 CST. Side note: as a responsible adult, I keep a very steady 2100-0500 sleep schedule, and throwing it off is rough.

Sunday, 6 March: Not only does the sliding glass back patio door face the east, but it only has white curtains covering it. I awake sharply at 0500. Now the week really begins, and the second, fatal, domino will fall today. See, here’s the deal: I got a solid drinking head start the day before as the only one on a plane; the rest didn’t really start until after 2200. This head start, coupled with my already difficult to fight circadian rhythms means I fell asleep in the king bedroom while they partied. I’m up at the crack of fucking dawn, they’re gonna be passed out for several hours more, bright ass Florida sun or no. The plan all along was to go on a proper bender, outrunning the inevitable hangover until the following weekend (SPOILER ALERT: I succeeded, and the hangover was two solid days). I shower, get dressed, crack a day beer, and wait. It’s still only like 0630, so I continue to drink until they get up around 0930 (the earliest these pieces of shit will rouse themselves all week). We go across the street to pick up some supplies at the Publix: 30 rack of eggs, frozen sausage patties, Red Bull, Gatorade, (too much) vodka, orange juice, champagne, and four cases of High Life. We go back, load up the fridge, do some drinking, and around noon I decide to take a nap. SECOND DOMINO. These sons of bitches claim they tried to wake me up a couple hours later when they were heading to the beach, and I’ll believe they tried yelling my name and shaking me a little, but in the future, I’m teaching everyone I’m with the EMT sternum rub. If you’re not familiar, it’s how EMT’s determine if a living person is in a coma or just really, really passed out. You put your middle knuckle on their sternum and press as hard as you can while wiggling it around a little. At some point, ANYONE will wake up. That’s how you keep a crew together. Lightweights. Anyway, I wake up at 0300 just after they fall asleep. I roll around, trying to get back to sleep, but once you’ve slept enough, you know how that goes. I’m asleep 20 minutes, awake 20 minutes, on and off, until the sun rises and I relent.

Monday, 7 March: I throw on some shorts and my chucks, grab the kettlebell and head out back. For hydration/outrunning the grim hand of death, I fill up my camelbak with equal parts vodka/Gatorade (blue, duh) and top it off with a Red Bull. I’m obviously in no shape to do a full routine, but I knock out 20 minutes’ worth of a few moves with too much rest in between, head in, and shower. It’s still only shortly after 0600, and here’s where I break down the domino analogy. See, it’s one thing to tap out early in an evening, but momentum had led me to “napping” well into the night, missing an entire afternoon on Sunday. The others, including Fred (who’d shown up while I slumbered), were drinking aggressively for almost 16 hours after I crashed out on Sunday. I’m still on a steady sleep schedule from that, and they won’t wake up until noon. We’ve established a sold six hour difference in our day cycles. Even though we’re all drinking at the same rate, I will be consistently passing out no later than 2100 every day, missing every night of clubbing/barhopping, and missing out on half the fun. I ended up feeling like the one chick in the sorority who has her period two weeks apart from everyone else, so while they have a shared feeling of solidarity, they’re all like “what’s wrong with this bitch?” while I’m cramping up. With an insane amount of time to kill, I make some eggs and sausage, drink some coffee alternating with beers in a futile attempt to get closer to their schedule, and play some music to get the vibe up, to which they all just bitch and moan. Smells like pussy.

Noon comes along, they chug vodka/Red Bulls and put themselves together. I throw on my “krakens” from Chubbies and we roll out to hit the beach.

FUCKING ENRAGING TANGENT: And HERE’S why you NEVER go back to PCB. Mark my words: this will be the last of spring break there, and when they realize their lost revenue, they will overturn their new ordinance from last year within five years’ time. Dunno if you keep up with raging news, but a little extra rowdiness caused PCB to ban open containers on the beach. This is the first spring break for the new ordinance to be enforced. We knew about this going in, but it didn’t seem like a big deal. First of all, bars line the beaches, and between camelbaks, flasks, coozies, and just being chill dudes, no big change, it’ll just be like any beach that never had open drinking, right? FUCKING WRONG. They decided to go from 0-60 on the retard track on this one. The beaches have either a cop of private security to support them, I shit you not, at least every 20 feet. Just a bunch of self-important assholes with goatees whipping their heads around and talking into their shoulder walkie-talkies like they’re Seal Team fucking Six. We were expecting a dry beach where people just drink from plastic cups rather than glass bottles like in most of the country. What we got instead was a feeling not unlike a group of Jewish prisoners stepping through the gates of Auschwitz. The vibe was dead.

If you’ve been, while there are little sand alleys to get straight to the beach here and there, for the most part you have to walk through some bar of some sort, and the one we chose tricked us into buying $40 VIP passes for the week. We were buzzed and they were really convincing, don’t judge too harshly. We never ended up going back to make good on the “deal” because the place sucked anyway. A cop (A COP!) was the fucking door man and confiscates my camelbak. Check this shit: since they’re so hip to camelbaks being used for undercover drinking, instead of just looking the other way like at ANY OTHER DRY VENUE ON EARTH, they just assume there’s booze in there and they’re effectively banned just like booze under the new ordinance. I was pissed; I spent $50 on that thing. I started arguing that it was just Gatorade, a camelbak does not equal alcohol, and he could have a sip if he wanted (I mean, he was right about my bag, but it’s the principle of the thing). He pulled out his pepper spray and demanded I handed it over. My primary instinct at all times when drunk is to avoid police involvement, so I resentfully comply, walk inside and immediately turn to my friends and say “can you believe that fucking jabroni?” A group of frat dudes was nearby (shock) and one guy goes “did you just call that guy a jabroni? NICE!” We high fived and shared a laugh, so I consider it a wash.

We stop at the bar for some catfish and beers (Running up $40 for two Coors Lites and a piece of mediocre catfish…hooray), then head through the back to the beach. Again, this is when we shudder at our initial sighting of these modern-day Gestapo, but we soldier on. We play some baggo, climb a rock wall, and walk around the promoter booths to collect some free swag. Two of them, Four Loko and Trojan, had girls giving temporary tattoos along with their tchotchkes, so I got one on either shoulder. I took the Four Loko sunglasses when offered, but turned down the free condom, laughing and explaining I got the tattoo ironically and that I didn’t use condoms, you silly woman. We barhop to maintain our buzzes, it’s like 70 and partly overcast the whole damn week but I hopped in the ocean to pee for a minute and layed out in the sun to dry off for awhile. By mid-afternoon it was getting exceptionally cloudy so we head back to the condo. On the way back we pass some dudes and one of them screams “SKIES OUT THIGHS OUT! RELEASE THE KRAKENS!” What do I see but a fratbro chubster sporting a sweet pair of krakens. We do a running chest bump that I may have been too aggressive about and keep rolling along. Back at the condo, there’s drinking, some games that go with that, shouting at golfers (we’re right on the course, like I’m a 25 foot walk from the back patio to the nearest hole), play some Motorhead at the elderly, and shortly after sundown I crash out, of course. They go clubbing/afterpartying till 0400.

Tuesday, 8 March: Pretty much a repeat of Monday. I get up infuriatingly early, try to make the best of it with a kettlebell routine (sans camelbak, so I get gassed way sooner), make a hearty breakfast and daydrink till the pusscrew wakes up mid-day. Fred met a girl, but when Snowman looks at her number and identifies a Chicagoland area code he goes, “Bail dude, do you really wanna fuck a chick who sounds like emperor awesome?” We hit the beach, play some volleyball to Kenny Loggins’ “Playing with the Boys” on repeat, and get some lunch. THIS FUCKING PLACE PINEAPPLE WILLYS. Don’t go. The entire time we are just checking off all the things that can go wrong for a beach bar/restaurant. Start off looking at the menu, there are no burgers of any kind. It’s like, bitch, one of your walls is missing and there’s sand on the floor. If you have ANY food, that’s where you start. The waitress comes around for drink orders and I ask for a bucket of Miller Lites. She said they didn’t serve beer by the bucket. First of all: beach bars nearly always have buckets. Secondly: the thing in the center of the table holding paper towels and menus? A TIN FUCKING BUCKET. It’s like – you already own them, how do you fuck up so badly? So we just order two Miller Lites each, then for food, I go with a reuben. Now I love a good reuben, it’s a solid sandwich, but I do not trust this place not to fuck it up. I make sure it at least comes on rye, she says of course. I go on to specify – “it comes on marbled rye, right?” and she looks at me like I’m the moron and says yes. Having agreed on terms, I order the sandwich. The sonofabitch comes with no thousand island dressing. And just to confirm it wasn’t merely an oversight, they confirm their consistent up-fuckery by placing a packet of Italian dressing on the plate. Just – holy shit, you guys. Fueled by liquor and rage, I decide to make my friends laugh at the expense of college girls on the beach. The best thing about girls this age, especially the attractive ones, is they’ve never been spoken down to, adding an extra layer of hilarity. I’m browning out at this point because we did some tequila shots but here are some gems that stick out in my mind:

Passing a group of black girls with very elaborate hair: (with genuine enthusiasm) “Hey, cool hats!”

Two Asian chicks: “Hey ladies, where are we visiting from?”
“UC Berkley.”
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhocking. And what are your majors there?”
“Mathematical engineering.”
“Get the fuck out! I would’ve pegged you both as ceramics majors.”

Girl wearing NIU shirt: “Hey, down from DeKalb, eh?”
“Yeah! Heehee!”
“That town’s pretty great, there’s so much to do. Tractor pulls, corn fest, corn mazes, eating corn, looking at corn…”

One-liners used on especially skanky broads (Disclaimer: I readily credit Deaf Frat Guy for the first three of these):

“This chick looks like she’s seen more meat than a Kansas City stockyard.”
“This chick looks like she’s seen more shaft than an Otis elevator repairman.”
“This chick looks like she’s seen more balls than a southern caterer during debutante season.”
“How’s that nursing degree coming along? Find a future doctor to bail on your dreams with?”
“Am I drunk enough to remind you of your dad yet?”
“You’re up mighty early for a stripper.”

At some point the cloud cover took over and we retired to the condo. Beers, I fall asleep, they go clubbing. Fred matches with some high school girls on tinder he legitimately considers meeting.

Wednesday, 9 March: Dawn of a new day. FUCK. Any semblance of self-respect is gone as I realize I missed yet another night. DAMN IT. Seriously, how do you not know about the sternum rub? I’m bummed out knowing I’m stark awake and they’re basically dead. I’m just motivated enough to look at the kettlebell as Winston Churchill would acknowledge a bottle of vermouth, there will be none of that today. I shower and step out onto the patio for coffee and a cigarette. The sky is completely overcast and looks like rain. The sky is completely overcast and looks like rain. Have a pot of coffee, six eggs, and eight beers by the time the rest of the crew shuffles around and destroys the toilets. There will be no beach today as it’s super shitty, so we just watch youtube and play drinking games. I take a nap at 1500 and wake up at 1930 when they come in with taco bell. I’m less pissed about that nap cause they brought extra tacos, but still. I have an atypical case of narcolepsy, I swear. I’m up for about two more hours before I crash out. I miss clubbing the last night they’ll go. At least I saved some money?

Thursday, 10 March: Wake up at 0500, the bender is catching up with me. I resignedly place the kettlebell back in my suitcase, not kidding anyone. The guys wake up this morning slightly earlier, at 1000, but only because Snowman leaves today at noon. He’s recently out of the Navy but without a job, and has an interview lined up for Friday. I don’t hold it against him. His early flight out didn’t seem like a big impact coming down the pipe, but since Fred is driving him to the airport, he doesn’t morning drink and thus feels extra shitty. He decides to say “fuck it” to further partying and begin his 13 hour trek back to Dallas straight from the airport. First nails in the coffin. Bandit and I hang out until the early afternoon but his girlfriend has been texting him all day about a house emergency so he has to address that and ditches as well. Fuck. My flight isn’t until 1430 Saturday and the condo is all paid up until 1100 the same day. I watch TV and work on polishing off the two bottles of vodka and three cases of beer left in the fridge. We did pay for them, after all.

Friday, 11 March: Wake up, bored and kinda pissed that everyone else bailed, and knew I didn’t wanna hit the beach alone. Beer, Tom Waits, and my thoughts.

Saturday, 12 March: Wake, shower, crack one last day beer, and clean up enough so I won’t get pegged with extra charges. Leave five beers lift in the fridge, not a bad dent. Figure it’ll be a well-deserved tip for the maid. Walk down to the front office, check out, and open uber app to get to the airport. No uber in PCB. Check lyft. No lyft in PCB. I call five cab companies, two of which agree to meet me sometime within 30 FUCKING MINUTES. How did people get by in the past, or the Florida panhandle? (Redundant) I go with the first guy to show up and we leave. 15 minutes later, or 40 minutes since I first called, I get an angry text from the second driver. He says what I did was unethical, I retort that his business model is unsustainable. Get to the airport $43 later (seriously cabs, I’m glad you’re dying) and sit and wait, looking like the world’s worst hangover, till 1400. Board the plane right away (group alpha motherfuckers) and sit in the hungover section of spring breakers. We look like a suicide cult that didn’t quite get the arsenic to kool-aid ratio right. Return to Baltimore 1730 EST, feel shitty. Wake up and sacrifice Sunday to one long malaise. Up at 0500 Monday for work. Between the physical comedown and the emotional shock, I’m just now working my way up to baseline.

All in all, it was what you could expect from a first draft based on our mindset going in. A blackout bender will come off the rails in some regard, at least no one was arrested. The week had some pretty stellar highs, but overall I really regret kicking it off with an unfightable six hour sleeping head start on them. Plus, the whole week had the dark clouds of dickhead cops, a last minute dropout, and literal dark clouds. I learned a lot this week. First and foremost, if I know ahead of time I’ll be the only one flying and everyone else will only start drinking at the destination, I’m not gonna drink like I’m trying to rid the world of liquor before they can. Also, I’m teaching everyone in whatever crew I’m going on a bender with some basic EMT shit about waking people up. I’m sorry I slept away most of the week. I’m sorry I spent so much money at overpriced tourist bars. I’m sorry for a lot of things I did, but you know what? It was a good week. I’m just a guy tryin’ to have a good time.
"I need a hundred beers...exactly one hundred, thank you."
-Nathan Explosion

"Does whiskey count as beer?"
-Homer Simpson

"Swaggering about in a garish new hat he seemed to say, 'Look at me, Rex Banner, I have a new hat.'"

"I am getting so drunk when we get paid for this."
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mistah willies
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Re: Spring Bender

Post by mistah willies »

Bump

Muthabump.

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Tarcek
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Re: Spring Bender

Post by Tarcek »

Ah, mate. You wrote all this out and no-ones congratulated you on a job well done, yet?
It sounds like it could have gone a hell of alot better, but you still made a good time out of it! Bravo!

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Re: Spring Bender

Post by oldsmartskunk »

A solid, well written story. It's a pity things ended up the way they did. And i know what you mean by having a headstart. It's like you are from a different planet. There is no technology to help you to get there. A week well spent, yet it had a potencial to be epic. It's like dating a pornstar and settling for chess match instead of sex. Having said that - i appreciatte the way you can handle booze, blackout plane boarding, trashtalking to college skanks - my pirate senses tell me you did good. Bacchus bless thy liver dear sir.

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Re: Spring Bender

Post by Tarcek »

"The best thing about girls this age, especially the attractive ones, is they’ve never been spoken down to, adding an extra layer of hilarity"

^ Ah, mate~ You're giving me evil ideas...

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oettinger
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Re: Spring Bender

Post by oettinger »

Reading this a second time, so many things to quote and comment on... so no.

First off, great writing. I`m loving it.

Second, that bitch called sleep...

Third, I see the knuckle stuff as kind of a challenge. I`m pretty sure I`m not alone on this board.

Fourth, one day we two hit the Wacken Open Air hard for up ten (!) straight days of booze. After that you feel like an Abrahams tank`s chain pice. No bone, no organ is in t`s rights place, rathers functions it was initially supposed to do.

Fifth, you live in the wrong country, funny that you refer to Gestapo describing the land of the free. And in the country of origin we are way more relaxed. Well maybe you have to suffer through once in history. We are on our way back to the medievil also tbh...

Cheers
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Dr Cyclops
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The Bender after the Bender's "Brobdingnagian Build-up"

Post by Dr Cyclops »

The Bender after the Bender's "Brobdingnagian Build-up"

I'm at a connundrum with this and I've done a search but nothing comes up.
There is a special time usually the next morning after a real Bender when I've opted for the "Hair of the Dog",that period when you can just gargle back 7 or 9 beers without feeling the faintest nudge from Bacchus' Bitch-stick.
You can really go to boozetown while feeling and behaving totally undrunk.
My questions are:
A) Has this been discussed before?
B) Has anyone else experienced this? or am I the only one to experience this? ...Possibly a Mutant?
B) Is there a name for this "Special Time"? and If there's no name?, dare we name it? (I think we should name it.)
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Re: The Bender after the Bender's "Brobdingnagian Build-up"

Post by oettinger »

A) I have no idea
B) you`re not alone
D) back in the day when me and the russian buddy drank on sundays to calm somewhat down it most often turned into the biggest drinking frenzie of the weekend
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Re: The Bender after the Bender's "Brobdingnagian Build-up"

Post by Badfellow »

Yes, I am familiar with this obscure phenomenon. As an analogy, I would quote the great terrorist philosopher (and Oettinger's step-father) Hans Gruber who said of Alexander the Great "and he wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer". Once you've climbed to the peak of Mt. Drunkard, everything else looks flat by comparison.
Mmmmm... the higher, the fewer, indeed.

Let me assure, you have seen nothing of this phenomenon until you've witnessed the Oggar demolish a warm case of Natty Ice in the Sunday aftermath of a brutally epic endrunkening.

As for a name? In certain vernaculars, it is known as "ramping down" or "pulling the ripcord", while in others it is simply called breakfast despite being taken exclusively in liquid form. Worthy of note, it was also Bogart's favorite tactic in the art of hangover mitigation and avoidance.
ພາສາລາວNONE GENUINE WITHOUT MY SIGNATUREພາສາລາວ

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Bur
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Re: The Bender after the Bender's "Brobdingnagian Build-up"

Post by Bur »

Occasionally happens roughly 3 days in to a bender or afterwards. However I am cautious of these times as often the drunky times hit me all of a sudden few hours later in a flash. Usually while outside taking a smoke too. I sad down with my mate to watch some trailer park bois and kept downing water glasses of rum. Felt very lucid during, but roughly half a rum bottle and few beers later booze hit me like a sledge. It was weird, went to bar later on anyhow and kept my focus despite my body feeling the effects of alcohol and lack of sleep.

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Re: The Bender after the Bender's "Brobdingnagian Build-up"

Post by mistah willies »

Dr Cyclops wrote:
Sat Feb 11, 2017 5:20 pm
The Bender after the Bender's "Brobdingnagian Build-up"

I'm at a connundrum with this and I've done a search but nothing comes up.
There is a special time usually the next morning after a real Bender when I've opted for the "Hair of the Dog",that period when you can just gargle back 7 or 9 beers without feeling the faintest nudge from Bacchus' Bitch-stick.
You can really go to boozetown while feeling and behaving totally undrunk.
My questions are:
A) Has this been discussed before?
B) Has anyone else experienced this? or am I the only one to experience this? ...Possibly a Mutant?
B) Is there a name for this "Special Time"? and If there's no name?, dare we name it? (I think we should name it.)
I have no idea what to name it, but it is an old frenemy. Perhaps it's form the depletion of the happy molecules in the head: endorphin, serotonin, vitamins, nutrition, food sort of benefits.

Also, water. Try to remember to use ice or a few drops of water in your drink.

That's all it's really good for. If fish have pooped in it, then you are dipping out of your koi pond. Not a good idea.

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Re: The Bender after the Bender's "Brobdingnagian Build-up"

Post by Patchez »

The effect you are talking about.. if properly fucked up the night before is called waken up a touch shitty and then getting back up to hammered agin.

Maybe I missed.
Now you're ready for some anti-dry-otics!-BeerMakesMeSmarter

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Blackout and be extraordinary-Absinthe of Malice

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Re: Another Bender

Post by Patchez »

Miklo wrote:
Fri Jan 13, 2012 8:41 am
Mr. Viking wrote:bender's aren't planned, change your plans, make it an accident
Ok...so.... I guess I'm not going on a bender, and I already have the room reserved, time off, so I am not going to change my plans. But I will go with the alcohol vacation, that sounds pretty good.
An Alcoholiday.
Now you're ready for some anti-dry-otics!-BeerMakesMeSmarter

If worms had daggers, birds wouldn't fuck with them-Todd Snider

Blackout and be extraordinary-Absinthe of Malice

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benitobeast69
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Re: Spring Bender

Post by benitobeast69 »

Emperor Awesome wrote:
Fri Mar 18, 2016 1:44 pm
Wow. It has been awhile since I’ve posted. My old account was deactivated, I guess I forgot to log in for a couple few years. BUT! I come back now as I originally did nearly 10 years ago because I need a permanent place to store a story away from my sieve-like brain, and this seems like the place for it to call home. First a little recap: I’ve spent the last 5 ½ years in the navy, and since there’s friends who’ve moved, I’ve moved, and guys who got out, we got set to planning an adult spring break in Panama City Beach this past January. Many hadn’t been to college, or hadn’t been to spring break in the past decade, so it seemed like a novel idea, and far more affordable than a Vegas getaway. Like most things like this, we got about 15 enthusiastic “Fuck Yeah!”s, which whittled down to a depressing five, then four about two days before kickoff due to a bad case of strep. We were left with myself, who will be named by handle, Bandit, Snowman, and Fred. I’ve gone with the cast of Smokey and the Bandit to protect the innocent.

So no shit, there we were. We’d rented a condo on a golf resort in Panama City Beach (which – never go there/back there, I’ll explain later). I feel like the best way to go about this is chronologically, but my memory is pretty foggy because I fully committed to the bender so some bits will blend together. I assure you I’m only going to convey what I’m certain of, and hopefully going through this on paper will help me piece it together for myself as well as you. Also, quick aside: though it seems douchey, I really prefer to use a 24 hour clock when typing, and it’ll help keep this whole mess slightly more coherent.

Saturday, 5 March: Our condo rental starts, and we all make our way over via various means. Bandit lives in Ft. Walton now, so he was going to arrive the earliest, getting the keys and six cases of the cheapest beer on the market at 1700 CST. Fred would be driving in Sunday afternoon on a single shot from Dallas, and Snowman, coming off a Caribbean cruise the day before, would be driving up to sightsee Florida and pick me up at the airport at about 2100 that night.

A word about how I got to the airport, how it was the first domino to rob my week of potential, and what I learned: I, like any regular dude, stick to the tightest budget when it comes to travel expenses. I mean, you’re gonna spend money on vacation; strap me to the roof of a greyhound if it saves money getting there. I had two southwest flights to catch, 1610 from Baltimore to Nashville, a two hour layover, and then a 1930 from Nashville to PCB. I’m flying, and on vacation, so obviously I already whipped my drinking clock against the wall, springs flying everywhere. I get to the airport at 1445 because they want you there crazy early to check bags, plus I anticipated arguing my way out of an overweight charge (I’m travelling with a 1 pood kettlebell in a vain attempt to keep it together for the week). Fun fact: southwest waives overweight charges for military up to two bags, even not on orders, but at best 50% of their employees are well versed in their policies. By some providence I didn’t get any shit for my 75lb bag either way. I’m ahead of schedule, skip the line with my rockstar TSA pre-check status, shoes on, natch, and now I’ve got a solid hour to kill before boarding starts. It’d been five hours since I ate, so I stop for some fish tacos paired with two double vodka sodas.

I board the first flight and sit between some good ol’ boy ordering TJD the second drink service starts, and some lady flying down to meet her daughter for her 21st birthday. Off to a fantastic start. I always pack a one quart bag of airplane liquor, ‘cause you can, but since you can’t technically drink it on the plane, I always gauge my seatmates. Having established they’re cool, I drink four Jim Beams, and treat the dude next to me to a Crown Royal. The flight lands in Nashville two hours later and the stewardess gives us one of those “you guys…” looks when we throw the previously hidden empties in her trash. I shrug and we all have a laugh. Nashville, God bless that town, still allows smoking sections in its airport, though due to the nature of supply v. demand, they charge a $5 entry fee. I open my wallet and the guy glances my slightly exposed ID. Turns out it’s free for military. Fuck YES Nashville. I grab a quick nic fix and move onto a bar. Two hour damage: two double vodka sodas, two double Moscow mules. I remember walking to the plane. How I got on, was not ejected, and landed is all an unanswerable question. I blacked out walking to the gate. Whatever happened on the second flight is a mystery, but according to Snowman, as we were waiting for the luggage carousel everyone on my flight was just glaring at me. Or my trademark tropical red party shirt. I also don’t know if I drank the five whiskeys left in my bag or if they were confiscated, but considering I maintained a solid blackout for the two hour flight, I’m going with the former. Anyway, my memory kicks back in in fits and starts on the ride to the condo, and I guess I yelled “OH SHIT WE HAVE TO GO BACK I FORGOT MY SUITCASE!” three times. The suitcase was in the trunk the whole time. I guess every eight minutes as my short term memory reset I’d take inventory, not see my suitcase, and assume I left it at the airport. I remember the third and final instance of this, and so the panic stopped and my memory tape picks back up. We try to get to the condo, which was in a private golf resort that was clearly too nice for us, 9/10 residents were north of 65. The front gate guard gives us shit since we don’t have club wristbands (Bandit picked them up at the front office earlier that day) so I lean over and start screaming my name, how I’m on the rental agreement, a paid guest of this resort, and furthermore challenge him to fisticuffs. He threatens to call the cops, Snowman drives away and cools me off as I go on about how he cares way more about his job than he has any right to, and we meet Bandit by the back gate. We get back to the condo, which is decked out like a poor man’s version of Robin Williams’ place in The Birdcage, and I crash out soon after, about 2300 CST. Side note: as a responsible adult, I keep a very steady 2100-0500 sleep schedule, and throwing it off is rough.

Sunday, 6 March: Not only does the sliding glass back patio door face the east, but it only has white curtains covering it. I awake sharply at 0500. Now the week really begins, and the second, fatal, domino will fall today. See, here’s the deal: I got a solid drinking head start the day before as the only one on a plane; the rest didn’t really start until after 2200. This head start, coupled with my already difficult to fight circadian rhythms means I fell asleep in the king bedroom while they partied. I’m up at the crack of fucking dawn, they’re gonna be passed out for several hours more, bright ass Florida sun or no. The plan all along was to go on a proper bender, outrunning the inevitable hangover until the following weekend (SPOILER ALERT: I succeeded, and the hangover was two solid days). I shower, get dressed, crack a day beer, and wait. It’s still only like 0630, so I continue to drink until they get up around 0930 (the earliest these pieces of shit will rouse themselves all week). We go across the street to pick up some supplies at the Publix: 30 rack of eggs, frozen sausage patties, Red Bull, Gatorade, (too much) vodka, orange juice, champagne, and four cases of High Life. We go back, load up the fridge, do some drinking, and around noon I decide to take a nap. SECOND DOMINO. These sons of bitches claim they tried to wake me up a couple hours later when they were heading to the beach, and I’ll believe they tried yelling my name and shaking me a little, but in the future, I’m teaching everyone I’m with the EMT sternum rub. If you’re not familiar, it’s how EMT’s determine if a living person is in a coma or just really, really passed out. You put your middle knuckle on their sternum and press as hard as you can while wiggling it around a little. At some point, ANYONE will wake up. That’s how you keep a crew together. Lightweights. Anyway, I wake up at 0300 just after they fall asleep. I roll around, trying to get back to sleep, but once you’ve slept enough, you know how that goes. I’m asleep 20 minutes, awake 20 minutes, on and off, until the sun rises and I relent.

Monday, 7 March: I throw on some shorts and my chucks, grab the kettlebell and head out back. For hydration/outrunning the grim hand of death, I fill up my camelbak with equal parts vodka/Gatorade (blue, duh) and top it off with a Red Bull. I’m obviously in no shape to do a full routine, but I knock out 20 minutes’ worth of a few moves with too much rest in between, head in, and shower. It’s still only shortly after 0600, and here’s where I break down the domino analogy. See, it’s one thing to tap out early in an evening, but momentum had led me to “napping” well into the night, missing an entire afternoon on Sunday. The others, including Fred (who’d shown up while I slumbered), were drinking aggressively for almost 16 hours after I crashed out on Sunday. I’m still on a steady sleep schedule from that, and they won’t wake up until noon. We’ve established a sold six hour difference in our day cycles. Even though we’re all drinking at the same rate, I will be consistently passing out no later than 2100 every day, missing every night of clubbing/barhopping, and missing out on half the fun. I ended up feeling like the one chick in the sorority who has her period two weeks apart from everyone else, so while they have a shared feeling of solidarity, they’re all like “what’s wrong with this bitch?” while I’m cramping up. With an insane amount of time to kill, I make some eggs and sausage, drink some coffee alternating with beers in a futile attempt to get closer to their schedule, and play some music to get the vibe up, to which they all just bitch and moan. Smells like pussy.

Noon comes along, they chug vodka/Red Bulls and put themselves together. I throw on my “krakens” from Chubbies and we roll out to hit the beach.

FUCKING ENRAGING TANGENT: And HERE’S why you NEVER go back to PCB. Mark my words: this will be the last of spring break there, and when they realize their lost revenue, they will overturn their new ordinance from last year within five years’ time. Dunno if you keep up with raging news, but a little extra rowdiness caused PCB to ban open containers on the beach. This is the first spring break for the new ordinance to be enforced. We knew about this going in, but it didn’t seem like a big deal. First of all, bars line the beaches, and between camelbaks, flasks, coozies, and just being chill dudes, no big change, it’ll just be like any beach that never had open drinking, right? FUCKING WRONG. They decided to go from 0-60 on the retard track on this one. The beaches have either a cop of private security to support them, I shit you not, at least every 20 feet. Just a bunch of self-important assholes with goatees whipping their heads around and talking into their shoulder walkie-talkies like they’re Seal Team fucking Six. We were expecting a dry beach where people just drink from plastic cups rather than glass bottles like in most of the country. What we got instead was a feeling not unlike a group of Jewish prisoners stepping through the gates of Auschwitz. The vibe was dead.

If you’ve been, while there are little sand alleys to get straight to the beach here and there, for the most part you have to walk through some bar of some sort, and the one we chose tricked us into buying $40 VIP passes for the week. We were buzzed and they were really convincing, don’t judge too harshly. We never ended up going back to make good on the “deal” because the place sucked anyway. A cop (A COP!) was the fucking door man and confiscates my camelbak. Check this shit: since they’re so hip to camelbaks being used for undercover drinking, instead of just looking the other way like at ANY OTHER DRY VENUE ON EARTH, they just assume there’s booze in there and they’re effectively banned just like booze under the new ordinance. I was pissed; I spent $50 on that thing. I started arguing that it was just Gatorade, a camelbak does not equal alcohol, and he could have a sip if he wanted (I mean, he was right about my bag, but it’s the principle of the thing). He pulled out his pepper spray and demanded I handed it over. My primary instinct at all times when drunk is to avoid police involvement, so I resentfully comply, walk inside and immediately turn to my friends and say “can you believe that fucking jabroni?” A group of frat dudes was nearby (shock) and one guy goes “did you just call that guy a jabroni? NICE!” We high fived and shared a laugh, so I consider it a wash.

We stop at the bar for some catfish and beers (Running up $40 for two Coors Lites and a piece of mediocre catfish…hooray), then head through the back to the beach. Again, this is when we shudder at our initial sighting of these modern-day Gestapo, but we soldier on. We play some baggo, climb a rock wall, and walk around the promoter booths to collect some free swag. Two of them, Four Loko and Trojan, had girls giving temporary tattoos along with their tchotchkes, so I got one on either shoulder. I took the Four Loko sunglasses when offered, but turned down the free condom, laughing and explaining I got the tattoo ironically and that I didn’t use condoms, you silly woman. We barhop to maintain our buzzes, it’s like 70 and partly overcast the whole damn week but I hopped in the ocean to pee for a minute and layed out in the sun to dry off for awhile. By mid-afternoon it was getting exceptionally cloudy so we head back to the condo. On the way back we pass some dudes and one of them screams “SKIES OUT THIGHS OUT! RELEASE THE KRAKENS!” What do I see but a fratbro chubster sporting a sweet pair of krakens. We do a running chest bump that I may have been too aggressive about and keep rolling along. Back at the condo, there’s drinking, some games that go with that, shouting at golfers (we’re right on the course, like I’m a 25 foot walk from the back patio to the nearest hole), play some Motorhead at the elderly, and shortly after sundown I crash out, of course. They go clubbing/afterpartying till 0400.

Tuesday, 8 March: Pretty much a repeat of Monday. I get up infuriatingly early, try to make the best of it with a kettlebell routine (sans camelbak, so I get gassed way sooner), make a hearty breakfast and daydrink till the pusscrew wakes up mid-day. Fred met a girl, but when Snowman looks at her number and identifies a Chicagoland area code he goes, “Bail dude, do you really wanna fuck a chick who sounds like emperor awesome?” We hit the beach, play some volleyball to Kenny Loggins’ “Playing with the Boys” on repeat, and get some lunch. THIS FUCKING PLACE PINEAPPLE WILLYS. Don’t go. The entire time we are just checking off all the things that can go wrong for a beach bar/restaurant. Start off looking at the menu, there are no burgers of any kind. It’s like, bitch, one of your walls is missing and there’s sand on the floor. If you have ANY food, that’s where you start. The waitress comes around for drink orders and I ask for a bucket of Miller Lites. She said they didn’t serve beer by the bucket. First of all: beach bars nearly always have buckets. Secondly: the thing in the center of the table holding paper towels and menus? A TIN FUCKING BUCKET. It’s like – you already own them, how do you fuck up so badly? So we just order two Miller Lites each, then for food, I go with a reuben. Now I love a good reuben, it’s a solid sandwich, but I do not trust this place not to fuck it up. I make sure it at least comes on rye, she says of course. I go on to specify – “it comes on marbled rye, right?” and she looks at me like I’m the moron and says yes. Having agreed on terms, I order the sandwich. The sonofabitch comes with no thousand island dressing. And just to confirm it wasn’t merely an oversight, they confirm their consistent up-fuckery by placing a packet of Italian dressing on the plate. Just – holy shit, you guys. Fueled by liquor and rage, I decide to make my friends laugh at the expense of college girls on the beach. The best thing about girls this age, especially the attractive ones, is they’ve never been spoken down to, adding an extra layer of hilarity. I’m browning out at this point because we did some tequila shots but here are some gems that stick out in my mind:

Passing a group of black girls with very elaborate hair: (with genuine enthusiasm) “Hey, cool hats!”

Two Asian chicks: “Hey ladies, where are we visiting from?”
“UC Berkley.”
“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhocking. And what are your majors there?”
“Mathematical engineering.”
“Get the fuck out! I would’ve pegged you both as ceramics majors.”

Girl wearing NIU shirt: “Hey, down from DeKalb, eh?”
“Yeah! Heehee!”
“That town’s pretty great, there’s so much to do. Tractor pulls, corn fest, corn mazes, eating corn, looking at corn…”

One-liners used on especially skanky broads (Disclaimer: I readily credit Deaf Frat Guy for the first three of these):

“This chick looks like she’s seen more meat than a Kansas City stockyard.”
“This chick looks like she’s seen more shaft than an Otis elevator repairman.”
“This chick looks like she’s seen more balls than a southern caterer during debutante season.”
“How’s that nursing degree coming along? Find a future doctor to bail on your dreams with?”
“Am I drunk enough to remind you of your dad yet?”
“You’re up mighty early for a stripper.”

At some point the cloud cover took over and we retired to the condo. Beers, I fall asleep, they go clubbing. Fred matches with some high school girls on tinder he legitimately considers meeting.

Wednesday, 9 March: Dawn of a new day. FUCK. Any semblance of self-respect is gone as I realize I missed yet another night. DAMN IT. Seriously, how do you not know about the sternum rub? I’m bummed out knowing I’m stark awake and they’re basically dead. I’m just motivated enough to look at the kettlebell as Winston Churchill would acknowledge a bottle of vermouth, there will be none of that today. I shower and step out onto the patio for coffee and a cigarette. The sky is completely overcast and looks like rain. The sky is completely overcast and looks like rain. Have a pot of coffee, six eggs, and eight beers by the time the rest of the crew shuffles around and destroys the toilets. There will be no beach today as it’s super shitty, so we just watch youtube and play drinking games. I take a nap at 1500 and wake up at 1930 when they come in with taco bell. I’m less pissed about that nap cause they brought extra tacos, but still. I have an atypical case of narcolepsy, I swear. I’m up for about two more hours before I crash out. I miss clubbing the last night they’ll go. At least I saved some money?

Thursday, 10 March: Wake up at 0500, the bender is catching up with me. I resignedly place the kettlebell back in my suitcase, not kidding anyone. The guys wake up this morning slightly earlier, at 1000, but only because Snowman leaves today at noon. He’s recently out of the Navy but without a job, and has an interview lined up for Friday. I don’t hold it against him. His early flight out didn’t seem like a big impact coming down the pipe, but since Fred is driving him to the airport, he doesn’t morning drink and thus feels extra shitty. He decides to say “fuck it” to further partying and begin his 13 hour trek back to Dallas straight from the airport. First nails in the coffin. Bandit and I hang out until the early afternoon but his girlfriend has been texting him all day about a house emergency so he has to address that and ditches as well. Fuck. My flight isn’t until 1430 Saturday and the condo is all paid up until 1100 the same day. I watch TV and work on polishing off the two bottles of vodka and three cases of beer left in the fridge. We did pay for them, after all.

Friday, 11 March: Wake up, bored and kinda pissed that everyone else bailed, and knew I didn’t wanna hit the beach alone. Beer, Tom Waits, and my thoughts.

Saturday, 12 March: Wake, shower, crack one last day beer, and clean up enough so I won’t get pegged with extra charges. Leave five beers lift in the fridge, not a bad dent. Figure it’ll be a well-deserved tip for the maid. Walk down to the front office, check out, and open uber app to get to the airport. No uber in PCB. Check lyft. No lyft in PCB. I call five cab companies, two of which agree to meet me sometime within 30 FUCKING MINUTES. How did people get by in the past, or the Florida panhandle? (Redundant) I go with the first guy to show up and we leave. 15 minutes later, or 40 minutes since I first called, I get an angry text from the second driver. He says what I did was unethical, I retort that his business model is unsustainable. Get to the airport $43 later (seriously cabs, I’m glad you’re dying) and sit and wait, looking like the world’s worst hangover, till 1400. Board the plane right away (group alpha motherfuckers) and sit in the hungover section of spring breakers. We look like a suicide cult that didn’t quite get the arsenic to kool-aid ratio right. Return to Baltimore 1730 EST, feel shitty. Wake up and sacrifice Sunday to one long malaise. Up at 0500 Monday for work. Between the physical comedown and the emotional shock, I’m just now working my way up to baseline.

All in all, it was what you could expect from a first draft based on our mindset going in. A blackout bender will come off the rails in some regard, at least no one was arrested. The week had some pretty stellar highs, but overall I really regret kicking it off with an unfightable six hour sleeping head start on them. Plus, the whole week had the dark clouds of dickhead cops, a last minute dropout, and literal dark clouds. I learned a lot this week. First and foremost, if I know ahead of time I’ll be the only one flying and everyone else will only start drinking at the destination, I’m not gonna drink like I’m trying to rid the world of liquor before they can. Also, I’m teaching everyone in whatever crew I’m going on a bender with some basic EMT shit about waking people up. I’m sorry I slept away most of the week. I’m sorry I spent so much money at overpriced tourist bars. I’m sorry for a lot of things I did, but you know what? It was a good week. I’m just a guy tryin’ to have a good time.
found this story 2 years later after typing in bender into the forum search....you write just like tucker max. and yeah one of my buddies is like you with his sleep pattern...is great for his professional life...fucks his drinking life in the ass though.
Hangover cure: Rigorous sex, hydration, hot bath, then "go up for half an hour in an open aeroplane." - Kinglsey Amis

Hugh
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Of benders and drunkarrhea

Post by Hugh »

This is day seven of my bender - and it's been a Kessler bender. Neat - that is - no mixer, no ice. I'm also having fast food delivered every day, usually Jack in the Box cheeseburgers, sometimes fried chicken.

You would think that the combination of whiskey and fast food would shred my insides and have me spending agonizing hours on the toilet. You'd be wrong.

I'm astonished at how well my digestion has been going throughout this whole thing so far. I probably haven't used twenty squares of toilet paper in the last week.

I usually hit the bars up when I'm on vacation. And of course, subsist on fast food. And my guts always pay the price for it. But this vacation has been spent in my apartment for the most part. (In fact the only time I've gone out was last night and I only had three glasses of wine at the bar with an old friend.)

The only conclusion that can be drawn from this is that drunkarrhea is caused by social anxiety and residual soap in tavern glassware.

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