4 Girls, 1 SUV
If you drink (which you should, because you can't trust someone who abstains from alcohol - that means you Mormons, Jehova's Witnesses and people with Hepatitis C) you've undoubtedly experienced one of those mornings where you've woken up nauseaus and puking in the toilet, thinking "FUCK I can't have another abortion!" Only to realize you're still in your dress from last night reeking of cigarettes and booze with some indecipherably blurred stamp on the back of your hand, and concluded that you're suffering from a hangover - though there is still a chance you're pregnant. Monday morning was one of those mornings for me - and I definately wasn't knocked up.
Of course these stories never start with the hangover. To get to the root of this evil feeling of morning-after death you have to go the cause - a night of way too much fun. Or in the case of this story, a brief moment of fun followed by what I will refer to as THE WORST CAR RIDE EVER.
For about a week, VIP, Crackey and I had been planning on heading to the Jersey Shore to go to Surf Club where two of VIP's favorite DJ's were spinning. We had taken the trip together once before and I can honestly say I had an amazing time, but the general crowd (aside from my friends) was the epicenter for one of the most loathed groups by New Yorkers. Guidos. To say this place was guidoed out is like saying people are a little dark in Africa. It was impossibly to look in any direction witout seeing blow outs, fake tans, waxed eyebrows, steroid abuse, tramp stamps, tribal tattoos and guido dancing. Words being inadequate for the phenomenon that is this form of movement, guido dancing can be loosely described as dancing in a circle, seemingly drunkenly stepping back and forth, swinging your arms in a fashion somewhere between that of an orangutang and a drowning epileptic. Despite this, I still had a good enough time on my prior trip to be excited about a second trip to Guido Mecca.
At the last minute, BlueMoon decided to lose her Surf Club v-card with us, and volunteered to chauffeur the 2 hour trip. The ride was filled with standard "road trip" chitchat about expectations for the night, stories from during the week, and stories about trying to steal hubcaps to replace the ones destroyed when you totaled your boyfriend's moms car in a city where she had over 30 unpaid parking tickets how you almost died speeding away in the getaway vehicle because it flipped over - you know the usual.
Just before 5pm we arrived on the lightning and rain filled Jersey shore eagerly anticipating the nights events. VIP, a regular at the venue, informed us that Redbull Vodka's were half price between five and seven. Smart move Surf Club - nothing says messy night and death by heart palpitations better than Redbull Vodka mixed with what VIP describes as "dirty filthy beats all up in your face."
BlueMoon and I walked into the club first since she was using VIP's ID and bought the first round of drinks for our group. As soon as we had collected our drinks, VIP and Crackey appeared and the party began. The four of us took the standard lap around the club to see and be seen, and then decided to spend some time on the deck since it had stopped raining. En route, we encountered a disturbing sight. I previously neglected to mention one thing about Surf Club. Aside from the overwhelming presence of guidos, the other dominating element of my last trip was the abundance of drug use. VIP told me that a good portion of the people at the club on a Sunday afternoon had come straight from Pacha the night before and were going to go to Arena for Asseteria afterwards. That is a minimum of 24 hours of straight partying - and the miniature bags and bottles covering floor probably indicated something other than a midget population with a littering problem.
Taking that into account, you can see why bumping into a tall shirtless guido carrying a 5 year old girl while blowing a whistle and chugging a bottle of water would be slightly disturbing. It was even more disturbing when he told her to take her vitamins and popped a pill in her mouth. KIDDING...but then again you never know with those trecherous guidos. Either way, the girl was right on track to be the next Drew Barrymore.
Slowly backing away from that nonsense we headed onto the deck. As we stepped out a full rainbow spanning the waterfront came into view. The group of us paused for a full two minutes just gazing and sipping our drinks. The rainbow isn't relevant, funny or even interesting in relation to the course of the nights events but it such a rare sight that I wanted to mention it. Oh wait maybe, it is relevant....those little aforementioned bags and bottles may have been left by the munchkins that live "somewhere over the rainbow". Fucking littering Lollipop kids.
Our rainbow watching was interrupted when VIP, BlueMoon and I realized our first drinks were finished and we headed to the bar for the next round. VIP remarked, "We're gonna get mangled tonight!"
To which I responded, "I don't know, I've had this problem lately where I haven't been able to get drunk." Famous last words.
No seriously, last words. After that drink I don't remember much about the club. Not to say that I blacked out after 2 drinks, but things went pretty standardly, and the blackout came somewhere around the end of the 2 hour reduced bar. The three of us except for Crackey, who fortunately (in this case at least) doesn't really drink, spent the hours capitalizing on half priced drinks with intermittent conversation, dancing and photo shoots. Sometime around 5:30 the Martinez brothers came on and the crowd went wild. We danced some more, and stumbled around. The only other thing I remember distinctly was meeting Peter Bailey, a well renowned DJ friend of VIP's.
Now you may be thinking
"This doesn't sound like a very interesting night. You got drunk, blacked out at a club full of guidoes, saw a small child, met a DJ and then what? You went home? Maybe you passed out in a bathroom? That may all be fun and games to you, but if you don't remember your night for the love of god why are you writing about it. YOU SUCK RISA! Why did you waste my time with this anti-climactic shit."
Well I'm not gonna argue that I'm not wasting your time. I'm not even gonna argue that this is particularly interesting to anyone not directly involved or that my writing isn't shit, but to continue with the story, I did come back to consciousness after my last early night memory of meeting Peter Bailey.
Somewhere between 9 and 10 (I can only place the time because I took pictures with time stamps) I came to, in front of Surf club surrounded by large bouncers. I tried to walk back in and they told me I couldn't go back in. Crap. I think I've been kicked out for being too drunk. Where were my friends to stop this? All I knew was some super 'roided up guys in too tight shirts were preventing me from going back inside, finishing my drink and dancing to the alluring sounds of the Martinez Brothers.
Realizing resistance was futile, I walked to the other side of the entrance and saw a girl sitting on a chair puking into a champagne bucket. I remember thinking 'thank god that isn't me.' Upon closer inspection I realized who it was. VIP's head was between her knees with her face in an ice bucket, puking while someone rubbed her back. I'm pretty sure it was her friend, but I might be completely wrong.
Cut to some time later we had all magically reappeared in BlueMoon's car, thankfully with Crackey driving, and VIP had stopped puking. In fact, as I'm editing this story, I just found out from BlueMoon that VIP had somehow sobered up, retrieved the car and picked us up in front of the club. That's fucking talent. Relieved to be in a familiar and clean setting I relaxed in the back seat with VIP while Crackey took control of the wheel.
Logically my next course of action after blacking out, getting thrown out of a guido club and entering blackout Round 2 was to commence drunk dialing/texting. Despite the fact that God advised against it and used his powers to make the scroll and enter buttons cease functioning, I still managed to send messages. Let me reiterate, I couldn't stand up, I couldn't remember 2-5 hours of my life and couldn't recognize people that I know, but I was able to maneuver text messages with a broken key pad. I can't decide if that means I'm supremely talented or a raging idiot. Probably the latter - especially since I texted a boy to see if he wanted to hang out which is not a task I would've been capable of engaging in by this point. Wisely (or fortunately) he was busy or smart enough to realize the condition I was in and declined my drunken offer.
Half-way through my series of texts, foul stench hit my nose. I may have been sleeping or talking, but I looked up to the front seat and there was BlueMoon puking out the window and all over the side of her car. Even worse, since we were driving 70 mph through the garbage dump known as Jersey, small amounts of vomit were coming back in the window and landing on the car. Worse than that, VIP and I had no idea that this was happening until we both leaned into the middle seat to see BlueMoon in the front and put our hands in residue.
The strange thing about the whole situation was, despite being incredibly, unbelievably, nauseatingly disgusted our disgust only lasted about 5 minutes before we switched from being appalled to laughing at the desperate mess that was our friend BlueMoon. The fact that we were shitfaced drunk probably helped with our apathy for the sewer-like situations of the car. Crackey's sobriety probably accounts for the fact that she wanted to kill us all.
At the next possible rest stop Crackey pulled over and everyone hopped out of the car. My mouth had started getting the "pre-puke sweats" and as soon as I hopped out of the car Crackey asked me if I needed to puke. I told her I was fine, then walked behind the car and threw up a little bit. By this point it was raining again, and the 4 of us, looking worse than Amy Winehouse, half dressed and covered in/smelling like vomit and stumbled into the rest stop and attempted to wash ourselves off in the sink. I was too drunk to notice, but I can only imagine the looks we got from the "normal" people stopping at the rest stop on the way home from their Sunday visit with grandma. Writing this paragraph right now is actually bringing back the smell of the puke and I'm getting really nauseaus. And retrospectively, thank god no one wanted to hangout with me post-Surf Club.
Somewhere between the sink and the exit, my phone started ringing, and I looked down and realized it was my younger cousin that I don't talk to very often. Without thinking about how drunk I was, and the fact that this was a younger family member who I'm supposed to be setting an example for, I picked up the phone.
Long story short, my high-school age cousin was running away from home and needed a place to stay. Being the good cousin that I am I told her it wasn't a problem as long as she called her mom and told her she was okay. Then I told her that I had to go because I was in Jersey with my drunk friends and covered in puke.
After that episode we got back into the car somewhat cleaner, albeit no less smelly since the car still reeked. Looking back at the pictures, we looked worse coming out than coming in, since our showers and the rain made us look like wet dogs, and there was nothing we could do about our horrible odor. On the bright side, BlueMoon's exorcism spray was removed from our persons although it was still all over the exterior of the car, and as I also just found out, stuck the the ceiling inside the car as well. Seriously, what the fuck is our lives?
Crackey got back on the road, and not long after we started making our way back towards NY BlueMoon started puking again. For lack of anything better to do VIP and I covered our faces and started laughing as our friend hung out the window. Slightly sobered up (and I mean that relatively speaking) BlueMoon was now making an attempt to clean herself up and took off her shirt to use as a napkin. However, she also took off her bra or wasn't wearing one, so she sat backwards in the front seat, topless, smoking a cigarette, wiping herself down with a sweatshirt as we drove down the highway.
Instead of offering our help, or useful advice as to where she needed to wipe down, VIP and I sat in the back cracking up as Jacque pulled up to the toll booth.
"HELP ME! SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!" BlueMoon was yelling as she went topless through the toll booth. Whoever was on surveillance that night certainly got a treat.
After that we decided to be good friends, and searched through the trunk for a sweatshirt BlueMoon could use as a blanket. In the meantime, Crackey sat in the front chain smoking to rid her nostrils of the smell of alcoholic bulimia. And for the record, Crackey hates cigarettes.
By this point, we, and the car were in such a disgusting state that our only desire was to get the fuck out of the vehicle and into a shower followed by bed. Unfortunately, the powers that be decided to throw another little obstacle in our way. BlueMoon's gaslight went on. Normally this wouldn't be a problem, but in our drunken stupor I had lost my ID, ATM, credit card and all my cash. Between the 4 of us we scraped together $10 and stopped at the next rest stop. Making us even more of a cosmic joke, the rest stop had a line 5 cars deep at each pump and gas could only be pumped by an attendant. When we finally pulled up the the pump, we realized that Crackey had pulled up the wrong side of the car. However, since the station was so busy we had no way to turn around, so she pulled up perpendicular to the pump and blocked off the flow of traffic. If people had a problem with that Fuck them, we're from NY and they're from Jersey so we're clearly more important.
As the attendant pulled up to the car, he looked at the cracked out messes that we were sitting in the car, and probably got a full whiff of our eau de regurgitation and asked what was on the side of the car. Crackey quickly responded that we had gone through the mud. The attendant replied but it's not on the tires and it's only on one side of the car. To which Crackey replied, ITS MUD.
After that I think we had about an hour left before we arrived at VIP's house to collect our cars and go our separate ways. I think the rest of the ride went relatively smoothly, other than the fact that all we talked about was our greatest fantasy at the moment involved scrubbing ourselves like rape victims in a hot shower with a gallon of bleach. We pulled up to VIP's house and hopped out of the car, allowing ourselves to air out, and scare the shit out of her neighbors. Everyone went their separate ways, showered, and woke up happily ever after the next morning. Or puking/pregnant, whichever.