Drinking with Little Sis

So, after my failure on Thursday night, I was eager to make up for lost time. I walk past the chapter house on my way to my apartment after work, and sure enough, four brothers are out on the front yard playing some late afternoon cornhole and sucking down the nectar of Fraternities far and wide, Natty Light.

The afternoon proceeds, innocently enough, meandering between various drinking games while we try to decide what to do for the night. After about an hour, I get a call from Little Sis telling me she's in town for a friend's party.

"Hey, you guys wanna crash my sister's party?" I ask no on in particular.

Much to my chagrin and lest I ever forget, my friends constantly remind me my sister possesses many of the qualities superficial males value in their women.

"You mean your hot sister?"

"Yes, asshole, her friend is having a party a couple blocks away, wanna go?"

My sister went to my high school's sister school, and dates a guy who was two years behind me. I needed an extra class my junior year, and elected to take Latin I, so I know a fair amount of guys in my sister's class, including the one throwing the party. I also thought it would be funny to unleash my bored fraternity brothers on a party of rising sophomores who attend stuffy, private East Coast Colleges. I was right

In order to come, we had to BYOB. No problem. We grab the end of a 30 and a handle of cheap vodka and set off. Once we arrive, we survey the scene and see this party is in need of a little pick me up. My fraternity proudly boasts of a game "in which everyone wins" called sprodka. Basically, you take the largest mug you have, fill it half way w/ vodka, half with sprite and ice cubes, stand in a circle, and chug until you are about to throw up before giving way to next in the circle. Play to music, finish before the song does, refill and repeat. Everyone wins because no one remains sober.

So, we get there and ask for some sprite and the largest mug they have. Unfortunately, only two cans of Sprite and a cup that could have been no more than 20 oz was produced. Undeterred, I head into the kitchen only to find the biggest domestic blender I've ever seen. Time to get our Sprodka on.

After rounding up the terrified 18-year olds who want no part of the increasingly drunk strangers that have interrupted their conversations about Introductory Economics at Ivy League College X, Y and Z, we begin. The first game goes off with no hiccups. The second, not so successful.

Since we were out of Sprite but had plenty of Coke, we had to adjust our liquor choice. No problem, there is a handle of Captain Morgan sitting on the table. As I greedily poor the rum into the absurdly-sized blender, a girl looks on in horror.

"Uh, I think that's mine," as I dump $25 worth of rum into the blender.

"Well, just make sure to drink extra this time," I say hastily.

The music starts, I go to town and pass it off. Same with the next guy. The third guy, however, is my friend, Justin. One thing every man has is an ego. Justin is no exception, particularly when it comes to drinking. With only a little prodding, you can talk him into things his otherwise capable mind would talk him out of.

"Drink you stupid bitch!" someone shouts as Justin begins.

"You won't finish that J, you won't!" another taunts him as Justin takes down more and more of the mixture.

And more of it.

And more of it.

And now all of it.

The retard just drank about 10 shots of rum in 3 minutes. This will be funny.

Flash forward 30 minutes. Justin and I are at the beer pong table. He is expectedly hammered. I am expectedly humored. He has yet to pass on an opportunity to dance with a girl that comes by the table, or make fun of her boyfriend as he runs to her rescue 30 seconds later.

Hilarity and inappropriateness ensued, but to ensure I am not considered a misogynist, I will refrain from printing Justin's Neanderthal-esque attempts to get laid.

We fondly refer to Justin as The Mutant, and it couldn't be further from the truth. He is a mess when drunk. Has an insult for everyone, always ready to fight, little to no disregard for other's happiness or personal space, simply a few fancy vocabulary words above retardation. But he also is incapable of backing away from an insult.

He finally succeeds in making a cup, and it just so happens to be the last one, winning the game for us. But, his drunk ass spent the entire game talking shit to the kids across the table, despite the Captain Morgan coursing through his veins telling him there were six of them.

"You leaned on that last one, asshole, it doesn't count," Cry-baby loser bitch says after Justin hits the last cup. There is nothing I hate worse than someone who has gotten worked, by me I might add, waiting the whole game to bitch about leaning over the table.

"Wha?" is all that Justin can muscle as the ball is thrown back across the table and strikes him in the face, mid-obnoxious celebratory dance.

"Your elbow was across the table, your last shot doesn't count," cry-baby repeats.

The Mutant is not a fan of that charge.

"Fuck you, you dumb bitch. I just shit all over you and now you got beef?" he exclaims, not even close to the truth since his drunk ass hasn't made a cup all night, but hardly the point.

"House rules, shoot over." The bitch doesn't understand The Mutant's potential.

"The house rules say the little gay bitches get fucked up the ass, so take Heath Ledger with you, Jake Gyllenhaal, and get the fuck off my table." The Mutant, while unable to walk or operate machinery when drunk, has tremendous wit.

The situation quickly deteriorated from then on out, until I was able to distract The Mutant with a shiny trinket and the Gay Bitch got tucked into bed.

I quickly tired of Justin taking 20 minutes to shoot the ball and miss by 30 feet, so I exited in the middle of the game to smoke a drunk cigarette. Just an aside, don't let anyone coax you into drunk smoking. Weed maybe, but never cigs.

The Mutant wanders out, and, having dealt with his bullshit all night, I decide to have some fun with him.

"Hey, Jake Gyllenhaal is over there taking a piss on that tree."

"Whaaaa?!?! Fucccckkkkk that queer cowboy," he screams as he brandishes a nearby basketball and stumbles off the porch.

"Hey you stupid queer fuck, where's your horse? You think because you fucked some guy outside in a movie, you can just take your post-Sodomy piss anywhere you fucking feel like it?" as he chucks the ball at the guy.

Unfortunately, he hit the guy square in the ass. Even more unfortunate, it wasn't the same guy from beer pong. Someone else, and someone bigger.

This triggers no response other than instant infuriation from the Assaulted. The Mutant might not feel the blows reigning down on him now, but he probably will in the morning. Since I began the fracas by antagonizing The Mutant, I'll have to bail him out.

I am aided by some other bystanders that know the Assaulted. We pull him off The Mutant and separate the two. It doesn't stop his mouth, however.

"This muthafucka has an unfair advantage," he screams in the pisser's general direction. "He has a long and storied career on top of guys."

The pisser, now recognizing the The Mutant's intoxication level, simply shakes his head.

Justin is not to be deterred.

"I made sure to aim for his ass, because I figured it was already sore."

The pisser, at this point, has had enough, and returns to the party.

"You shoulda kept hitting me, you stupid shit, you could have ended up in the joint and gotten some strange out of the night." Why did I provoke the beast?

The Mutant's destruction is not finished. He makes sure to punch every sign on our five block walk back to the chapter house, interjecting each punch with various threats on the pisser and assurances he could have beat his ass.

"What the fuck, [Carter], I could have fucked that guy up!" as he punches a sign. "Why did you pull me off him?"

"Because you were on your back and getting the shit kicked out of your drunk ass, you stupid fuck," I said, quickly losing patience.

"Yea, well he was a candied-ass bitch and I would have fucked his shit up," while throwing another hay maker at an unsuspecting stop sign.

I finally get The Mutant back to the house, where he is now screaming in pain as he suspects he broke his hand taking out his furor on every sign we passed. I throw his ass through the front door and begin the 10 minute walk home.

As I reach my apartment, my cell phone rings.

"[Carter], I could have fucked that guy's shit up!"

"Justin, go to bed you stupid fuck, you are lucky he didn't kill you."

"No dude, you don't understand, I would have owned that little bitch. I was about to..."

CLICK. That's all the drunk shit talk I can take for one day. I pack the bowl, flick on the TV, and pass out. I find out from Lil' Sis the next day The Mutant did not make a good impression.

"Thanks for the invite last night. Did we cause too much trouble?"

"Your friends creeped everyone out. They were so drunk and tried to fight everyone. And someone told me you were making people chug out of a blender?"

"It was all they had."

"Well, they had fun laughing at you all, but I don't think you'll be invited back anytime soon."

Well, we burned a bridge but spiced up an otherwise dull summer night. Justified? Probably not, particularly all the fighting. But I learned a valuable lesson; my friends are dumb enough as it is, I do not need to bring gasoline to a five-alarm fire. And, cheap laughs are hardly worth it. I put my friend in danger simply to spice up my night, and now he has a damaged hand. It's fun to drink, it's fun to party, but to avoid a world of problems, use moderation. I can't promise I always will, but it's always a good idea to have the consequences of your actions in the back of your mind to avoid trouble. Until next time