Alright, now, a lot of you may already know this,
but I like to have a drink from time to time.
And by all means, I'm no Stone Cold Steve Austin,
But I like to think that I have a decent tolerance and I can hold my own.
Now, of course, that's not always been the case.
I mean, everybody's got to start somewhere, right?
So today I'm going to tell you about the first time that I got drunk.
And of course, it's not a pretty story.
It's a lot like everybody else's story about the first time they blacked out
and made an ass of themselves.
"Oh God, the first time I got drunk, I puked in the bushes,
broke up with my boyfriend and then shat in my own bed."
"That's great, Aunt Carol, can you pass the mashed potatoes, please?"
But I'm going to tell the story anyways,
because this is my shitty cartoon channel and I feel like telling it.
But before I do that,
*Brewstew films does not condone binge drinking in any way, shape or form.
Alcohol is bad for you, it makes you smell like divorce,
and it's the reason why your Uncle Rick sleeps on your couch.
"Oh, God damn it!"
Alright, now, that that's out of the way,
let's set the stage.
It's roughly ten years ago,
and my roommate, Brewer just turned 21 years old.
And we're looking to celebrate.
How are we going to celebrate, you ask?
Oh, we're going to fucking drink like pirates, what do you think?
But since we were both broke as hell back then,
our options on alcohol were very limited.
After all, your beer budget is pretty slim
when you're having utilities shut off on a routine basis.
So naturally, we got a case of the cheapest, shittiest beer we can find.
(POP!)
No, even shittier than that.
(POP!)
Shittier still, keep going.
(POP!)
Whoa, whoa, way too far, no!
We're not fucking animals, Jesus Christ.
(POP!)
There, that's the one, perfect!
So we have some friends over,
We start drinking some beers and we're playing some cards.
Well, imagine my surprise when I find out that I hate the taste of beer.
I thought it was yucky back then,
which was crazy to me because my ass grew up
watching Stone Cold Steve Austin two fisting cold ones every Monday night.
How the hell could I not like beer?
"Uhm, maybe it tastes different
if you're drinking on top of a turnbuckle in your underwear, I don't know."
But fortunately for me, Brewer didn't just get shitty beer to drink,
He also got an equally shitty bottle of tequila.
And we're talking bottom of the barrel stuff here.
This ain't no Jose Cuervo,
this is like Jose... fucking... Hell The Fuck No!
It was a very unauthentic bottle of tequila.
It's about as Mexican as my high school Spanish teacher and shit.
"Pico de Gallo, Por Favor.
Grassy-Ass!"
I want to just say learning how to drink on shitty tequila
is a terrible idea.
That's like trying to learn how to ride a bike as a kid
on fucking Evel Knievel's Rocket Cycle.
(Click - WHZZZZZZZZ)
But that wasn't gonna stop me,
because that night I was determined to get hammered.
"Do you guys dare me to take a shot for every hand that I lose?"
"What? No, dude, that sounds like a terrible idea!"
"Okay, do you double dare me?"
"No, dude, are you fucking nuts?"
"Okay, fine, I'll do it, I'll fucking do it, since you insist!"
Now, the name of the game that we were playing that night was Euchre.
And for those of you that don't know,
is a card game that we play out here in the Midwest,
and Euchre just so happens to pair very well
with drinking copious amounts of alcohol.
It's pretty much all we have to do out here in the Midwest, what can I say.
But taking a shot for every hand that I lost in Euchre
was stupid as hell.
I mean, for one, I blew ass at Euchre.
I had no business making that bet in the first place.
And for two, since I never drank before,
I had the alcohol tolerance of a fucking diabetic third-grader.
So throughout the night, I'm getting my ass kicked in,
And I'm having to take shot after shot like I'm fucking Superman.
(GULP-GULP!)
Oh God, it tastes like spicy piss, I hate it!
And contrary to games like bowling or pool,
I don't get better at Euchre the more that I drink.
I just get shittier and shittier and shittier.
Halfway through my liver is yelling at me from the inside and shit,
"Stop calling 'trump' when you're 4-suited, you stupid asshole!
Are you trying to ruin us?!"
Well, needless to say, about an hour goes by,
and all of a sudden I'm fucking drunker than a stepdad at a Little League game.
(GULP-GULP!)
This doesn't taste like spicy piss anymore.
This doesn't taste like anything anymore!
So I stumble into the bathroom,
and like a lot of people do their first time getting drunk,
I look into the mirror
and I meet my drunk self for the first time.
"Whoa, wait a minute, who the hell are you?!"
"Oh, well, I'm the drunk you, that's who I am!
I'm a lot like sober you,
but shittier, louder, and sometimes I think I know how to dance."
"Oh, okie-dokie then!"
Now, at this point, things start to get a little hazy.
Because it's at this point your brain's like,
"Hey, you can take it from here, right?
I'm gonna run down to the store and get a pack of smokes.
Try not to fuck yourself up too bad, okay?"
(Leaves whistling)
Hell, the last thing that I distinctly remember from that night
was playing WrestleMania on the Nintendo 64,
which everybody knows is the greatest wrestling game known to man.
But since I'm drunker than a sophomore on prom night,
Brewer is just beating my ass.
Which goes to show how drunk I was,
because Brewer sucks ass at WrestleMania.
I was Stone Cold Steve Austin for Christ's Sake,
he's over there beating my ass with The Blue Meanie of all people!
But regardless, what happened after our little WrestleMania match?
I couldn't tell you,
because well, I wasn't there.
I mean, sure, I was there physically,
but my brain was off getting a pack of Marlboro Reds remember?
But according to everybody's testimony the next day,
apparently I stood up on the couch,
and yelled something to the effect of,
"Uh, fuck The Blue Meanie!
You guys want to see me do a dropkick for real?"
And then to nobody's amusement
I did a haphazard missile dropkick into the air
and totally obliterated my shitty end table that I made in woodshop.
Now that everybody is staring at me like I just ruined Christmas,
I decided to do my finishing move.
And that, of course, is where I throw up on the floor like a newborn baby.
(Blaargh!)
"Oh, sick! What kind of circus shit is going on here?!"
And just when you think I couldn't possibly make an ass of myself anymore,
I fucking stick my hand in my own puddle of throw up.
Now, why the hell would I do something like that?
Well, again, I have no idea, I wasn't there.
But I think I was just trying to make sure that it was all real.
Like, there was no way that I did that.
"This isn't my puke, is it?"
(Plop-plop!)
"It doesn't feel like my puke."
It was at this point
that everybody is just about finished with my fuckin' theatrics.
So they cart me away, take me to bed like I'm a child.
But just before they close my door,
my drunk ass has the audacity
to wish Brewer one final Happy Birthday.
"Ahey, Hapy Burthday!"
(Blaargh!) Oh, God!
(Light switch click, door thud)
The next morning I wake up
with what I would call a hangover from Hell.
My mouth tastes like the inside of a Porta Potti.
My head feels like it was shoved up an asshole of some sort.
I stumble out to the living room,
that now looks like a fucking crime scene from an episode of Law & Order.
And I'm totally baffled.
"Whoa, what happened?!
Who the hell broke my end table, I got a B- on that goddamn thing!"
"You did, you stupid drunk idiot!
And then you fucking played Patty Cake with your puddle of puke
like some kind of sick asshole."
So needless to say, the moral of this story is pretty simple.
#1 - Don't drink a bunch of shitty tequila like it's the end of the world.
#2 - Don't make shitty bets on Euchre when you suck ass at Euchre.
#3 - Don't put your hand in your own throw up,
like some kind of drunk animal
and ruin the whole goddamn birthday party.
The End.
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