One football Saturday Senior year, we were throwing a party that we had billed as the biggest party ever for the previous two weeks. Two weeks was an eternity in terms of party promotion at our house, often giving notice any earlier than a day or two prior to the party date led to an unmanageable crowd showing up and kicking the kegs by midnight, so we intended for this one to be a blowout.
In preparation, we obtained seven kegs and three taps; the idea was to have a keg flowing on each floor of the house to minimize waiting time. The upstairs kitchen was set up for beer-pong, the living room had the kegerator and was cleared of all furniture save the stereo to facilitate dancing, with ambiance generated from the gaudiest colored light disco ball that Spencer Gifts had to offer. The full, unfurnished basement, our traditional party venue, held yet another beer-pong table and stereo, and some odd remnants of old couches and chairs. We were ready to jam.
Typically, the guests at these sorts of affairs began to pore in around 10:00PM, and the place was filled to a capacity that was a slap in the face to the Fire Marshall by 11:00. I was just finishing up my shower when big Golden Girls loving bowl arrived at 8:30. I have known Bowl many a year, and have seen him in every stage of drunkenness, but this particular evening he was in the rarest of form. He proudly informed us that unlike we pussies, he had not stopped drinking since the football game! And not only had he kept it going, but he singlehandedly put away an ungodly amount of some whiskey or something – I cannot recall exactly because his speech was already slurred beyond comprehension.
I went into my bedroom to get dressed, while Bowl informed me once again that I was a pussy, and pulled a beer from the kegerator. He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs that were scattered around the house. When I emerged from my room approximately eight minutes later, he was slumped in the chair, head hanging low over his nearly untouched beer. I laughed, and shouted “Bowl!” to wake him up. Upon waking, he calmly set down his beer, got up, and staggered into the bathroom, where he remained for quite some time.
I thought nothing of it, and continued helping my five roommates with the party preparations. I left the room briefly, and when I came back, I started to wonder about Bowl. I rapped a few times on the bathroom door, and heard no answer so assumed he had fallen asleep on the can. I opened the door – nothing in my life had prepared me for what I saw at that point.
Predictably, Bowl had puked. Not only did he puke, but he literally covered every surface in the room with his vomit. There was a trail of bright pink slime from the door to the toilet, it covered the outside of the toilet, it was in the tub, it was on the walls. There were footprints all over the floor, and handprints on the sink, and on the mirror. It appeared as if girl from the exorcist had visited our bathroom. Bowl was no longer present; he painted the room in barf and vanished like a throw-up ninja.
I was dumbfounded; the magnitude of the disaster left me in a state of catatonic shock. The stench alone took my breath away. I just stared, until Schwartz came over, took one look, and walked away laughing. But not haha laughing; laughing with despair.
The only solution I could manage was to close the door and walk away. I was content with just locking it, maybe putting some police caution tape across the door, and never using that room again. There was another bathroom upstairs, and we encouraged guests to pee in the large laundry sink in the basement; surely that would be sufficient for the five hundred party-goers who would be arriving in less than an hour. What else could I do?
Unsatisfied with this solution, Schwartz’s girlfriend took one for the team, gripped a mop, and cleaned the whole room. If she hadn’t, I assure you no one would have.
Thanks for coming to our party Bowl, and bringing with you a hurricane of disgusting destruction.