By Silence Doless

Have you ever been drinking? Of course you have, you’re in college. That is, unless you’re super-religious or your dad is an alcoholic.

However, some of you may have had your first real drinking experience in college. I know I did. I also know what you’re thinking, and so what if I didn’t drink in high school? In fact, I didn’t even go to high school. Instead, I roamed the country looking for improbable things to do, so I could write about them later.

Like one time I was hiking in the Rockies and wrestled a drunken camper who thought I stole his trout. Speaking of which (drunkenness, not trout), here’s my first-time-really-drunk story.

London, 1936: Some guy wearing a bowler hat and a monocle walked down the street.

London, 2006: I walked down the street.

I was studying abroad with about 25 other people and we decided to walk to a local bar. We got there and the place turned out to be a crowded dance rave, with flashing disco lights and everything. Warning number one. It should also be mentioned that I am a flyweight. Warning number two.

So, we’re hanging out and two and a half beers later, I’m gone. I was completely aware of my inebriated state, but it was as if I was experiencing the world through a thick layer of numbing foam. The ground refused to stay put when I turned my head and I was incapable of conversation. I could nod and slur a series of syllables together if someone talked to me, but that was it.

Between trips to the bathroom, I was stopped by a round-butted girl in our group who, for some reason, had a crush on me. She started dancing and then grinding against me. Not exactly aware of what was happening, and only seeing an image of reality every five or six seconds, I made my best attempt to sway with the music and her butt. After a moment or two I saw an image of the girl’s face. It was angry.

“You dumped beer down my ass!” She accused.

“Muhnnglf,” I apologized. Then she flounced over to another guy in the group who was more than willing to grind all over the place.

I staggered to the back of the room and immediately had to pee again. Lurching through the crowd, I decided that I was too far gone to stay any longer and told this to a friend of mine. He told me to stop drinking for my own safety, took my half a beer, downed it and gave me directions back to the hotel. I have a really bad sense of direction, by the way.

“Just turn right out of the bar and keep walking. You can’t miss it.” He said.

I thanked him and walked block after block in the London night. Despite how incredibly drunk I was I didn’t recognize anything and was cognizant enough to realize that I should. So I turned around and walked the other way when I ran into another member of our group.

She asked where the hell I was going, and after a while figured out that I was trying to get back to the hotel. She hailed a cab and we drove to the hotel. I don’t remember much of the ride, only that the girl was nice and I ended up paying for the cab.

Back at the hotel, I went straight to my room. I took off my coat and tried to hang it up, but missed the hanger and fell into the closet. After almost going to sleep, I pushed myself up and turned around to get into bed, which was perpendicular to me. Miscalculating, I tripped over it and landed on the other side in a heap. I managed to crawl under the covers but the world just spun around me.

I woke up in the morning, still drunk, and during class I kept giggling and making inappropriate comments about Dickens.

And that’s my drunken story. In fact, I’m drunk now. Speaking of which, I’m going to wrestle some a**hole for a trout.

Rabinowitz update!

The ship creaked and groaned, and so did the Captain.

“Damn it, we need food!” He yelped. We had been searching for Rabinowitz for over a week and had run out of food three days ago. Soon we’d be eating weasel. I loaded my pistol. The duel was coming…and I was ready.