Not exactly my story, but:

I once had a roommate who used to drink to the point of blackout on an almost nightly basis. Once he got started on the tequila, forget it. He'd drink until he was lumbering around like a zombie, then he'd suddenly just crash and lapse into a 10-hour coma.

One night he got so messed up he couldn't find his way into the house, so he passed out in the next door neighbor's bushes. I left the following morning to retrieve my car from where I'd parked near the bar the night before, and he was lying unconscious underneath a large evergreen bush.

At least he'd somehow had the presence of mind not to piss himself, but he had apparently lacked the presence of mind to put his junk back inside his pants after he was finished. When he got up off the ground, I actually had to tell him to put his dick away before a neighbor calls the cops.

I have fond memories of stumbling around Glasgow with some girl from chicago. We had decided to mix a half litre of gin into a 2 litre bottle of tonic, so we could drink on the street/train/in-between pubs and such. She had opted to wear a Union Jack shirt on Rangers/Celtics game day... I somehow ended up in a lot of scuffles. Poor judgement, AHOY!

I was also party to Ike's drinking contest w/ Jimmy Flame. I think I made him drive a couple hours that next morning.... sorry about that Ike, I should have been a little more sensitive.

I think the worst, the very worst, was when I crashed a baby funeral.

On both sides of my family, food is served at every fucking stage of the funeral. As soon as someone buys the proverbial farm, the meat and cheese trays rear their tasty heads. They never leave. Ever. So, of course, every experience I've had with funerals involves deli platters.

One night, about 3 or 4 years ago, I'm driving back home from my friend Ryan's house. As I get to my driveway, some idiot asshole had blocked me out. Again. Everybody knew the proper parking: pull up and to the right. This other person just pulled straight in, so now nobody could get in. So pull as far in as I could and to the left. Within 5 minutes, the building manager, Christal (yes, she spells it like that because she's a Born-Again Christian) asks if I can move my car so her friend can back out. I tell her she needs to "teach [her] friend how to fucking park", because this is the howevermanyth time I 've been blocked out of my space. He apologizes. I move my car. Everybody apologizing. I say forget about it.

This was all in an artist commune across the street from a sports bar and a funeral home (real classy). My studio was set up on the third floor, and every weekend, Surly Bob (that's what everybody called him) and I would get together and practice, and practice included 40s of Mickey's. Never a practice went by without the Mickey's.

Well, Surly Bob and I are out on the stoop having a smoke about a month after the parking lot incident and I notice the funeral home is pretty jumping. I look at Surly Bob and say "Let's go across the street and get a sandwich."
Surly says, "I don't think that's a very good idea."
"Man, what the fuck are you talking about?"
Surly says he's going to the bar, I say okay, I'm getting me a sandwich.

Reeking of malt liquor, sweaty, and dressed shabbily, I stumble into the funeral home and ask the first couple I see where the registrar is. They point me to it and I sign in under the name Adam Castanowitz. I begin the search, but to no avail. Not even so much as a coffee maker. And that's when it happened...

I stepped into the casket room.

Now, everybody's just shooting daggers out of their eyes at me, and all I can focus on is that the casket looks awfully tiny. So what do I do? Why, I decide to investigate, of course.

We've all been through seventh grade art. We all know how perspective works. We all understand that things are supposed to get larger as we get closer. But this fucking casket is staying tiny in relation to everything around it, and my brain, firing on the few cylinders it has at the moment can only work the following sentence into my internal monologue: "That better be a fucking midget."

I keep walking closer and closer. My brain says stop but my legs keep moving and I get up to the casket and I look in (God, why did I look in!?) and IT'S A FUCKING BABY!

I hadn't been Catholic for years, but I dropped to my knees and start pulling out every move I recall from the Judeo-Christian Playbook. Our Father and whatnot.

I get up. I must beat a hasty exit. The eyes are drilling holes into me. My God, I'm almost free when I come across the panorama somebody set up with pictures of the baby in all the fullness of its short life. And it pulls at the heartstrings and distracts me from my immediate mission: Beating a hasty exit. And so I've stopped and that's when this guy out of nowhere comes up and introduces himself; he's the father.

I bullshit like I've never bullshitted before, and I manage to convince the guy that I had seen the obituary in the paper and that I live right across the street and that I had recently lost family myself (I had) and he seemed genuinely touched that a stranger would come to his daughter's funeral.

About a week later, Christal comes up to my door and I open and ask what's up to which she says, "My friend told me what you did." Well, my understanding of Born-Agains is that they aren't fighters, so I'm not worried about who I've pissed off this week.
Still, I humor her. "What are you talking about?"
"You remember my friend? Who you blocked in the driveway?"
"Yeah."
"Well, he said that you came to his niece's funeral last week! You really do have a big heart, Charlie!"
What could I do? I said, "Christal, that's a side of myself I don't like to expose to often. I'm going to the bar."

I'm just going to go ahead and consider the bar raised.

Charlie D wrote:I think the worst, the very worst, was when I crashed a baby funeral.

I wouldn't waste my 666th on just anything, Charlie. For my money, you've made Post of the Month.

Champion Rabbit wrote:Staying in a rather nice (and expensive) hotel in a hill-walking region of the north of England when I was around 25, I awoke (having consumed rather too many post-hike Old Peculiars in the local pub) to find myself naked, upright and urinating.

'No problem' I thought as the fog of tiredness and booze parted as much as one might expect for only a couple of hours sleep. Then the full fucking horror of the situation hits me like a sack of shrieking fucking kittens: I have somehow left my room, walked (naked) to God-knows-what part of this (large) hotel and am now not only lost and cloth-less, but also still shit-faced.

I have also just urinated on the carpet.

During the subsequent and (retrospectively comedic) search for my room I encounter several couples returning from their evenings-out. I choose to 'bluff' my way through the situation by acting as if my behaviour is absolutely de rigeur.

When at last I find my (locked) room, my girlfriend of the time is drunk enough to not awake until my knocking at the door has brought out several neighbours.

The memory of this evening fills me with absolute horror to this day.

Transplanted from the 'Embarrassing Acts' thread.

night_tools wrote:Ahem...this happened a couple of months ago - the shame has just about receded enough to post...
My girlfriend and I went to a dance at a rather posh hotel - a converted castle, somewhere in the Scottish highlands. Over the course of the evening we both drank a hell of a lot, and although I was feeling fine whenwe left to go to bed, by the time we reached our bedroom I pretty much passed out. At least, I don't remember making a conscious effort to get into bed. At some point in the middle of the night, I got up to go for a piss in the en-suite bathroom in our room. However, and this is a crucial distinction, instead of turning right into the bathroom I turned left and exited our room into the corridor. The door clicked shut behind me, and I realised that I was locked out. Then I realised that I was wearing only a shirt. And I was still bursting for a piss.

I immediately tried to "quietly" knock on the door to wake my girlfriend - absolutely no fucking chance. The next thought in my booze-addled brain was to find another toilet. I was aware that there might be other people around - (for other people, read "the entire rest of my year at University - people who I still have to see on a daily basis for another 2 1/2 years),
Realising that my semi-nudity was in questionable taste, I quickly took my shirt off and fashioned it into a crude, penis-covering apron. Thus-attired, I set off in search for a place to piss.

The rest of the story is somewhat sketchy. I definitely didn't find a toilet, yet I definitely pissed somewhere, possibly in a cupboard.
I met someone, a girl who I recognised and spoke to at the time, but who I now can't remember. No-one has mentioned anything to me since though, and I haven't heard any rumours circulating about a hairy half-naked ape-man rampaging around the corridors, yelling and urinating. I think my saving grace was that everone else was as drunk as I was, and most of them were busy sleeping it off.

I eventually arrived back at my room, now clad in a towel I had found outside of someone's room, and proceeded to bang on the door, all pretense of stealth now abandoned. After a couple of minutes of this I was greeted by an absolutely furious 'missus', who demanded to know what the fuck I was up to.

She's forgiven me now. And although the hotel was 'posh' and looked nice from outside, it was actually pretty crappy. I still feel bad for pissing on their carpet though.

Let's hear it for the hotel carpet piss club!!!

I was once making out with the white-hottest of hotties at a party. We were both seriously ripped. We were going at it in a bathroom. When we came up for air, I hiccuped
We both laughed. I hiccuped a second time, and the contents of my stomach suddenly covered mostly her, but only a little of me. She didn't laugh. But since we were in a bathroom, we both ended up showering and making out some more.

m.koren wrote:

Charlie D wrote:I think the worst, the very worst, was when I crashed a baby funeral.

I wouldn't waste my 666th on just anything, Charlie. For my money, you've made Post of the Month.

I'll second that. Salut!

At the end of the soccer season, we have a prize giving and a bit of a 'do' in the club rooms.
One particular year, I ended up getting very very intoxicated (I was 16 at the time) and did a whole bunch of embarrassing shit that I can hardly remember.

1. Stole the mic off the singer of this awful covers band and made them look real good

2. Fell down a flight of stairs and grazed my chin on the concrete.

3. Went home with my coach

4. Peed in his bed

5. Woke up the next morning not knowing where the hell I was and had to walk out onto the street to ring my friend and give her directions to pick me up.

Another time at a party, I cut all my hair off and blamed it on someone else so my bestfriend gave that person a damn good hiding! Sorry Sam....

Rachi wrote:At the end of the soccer season, we have a prize giving and a bit of a 'do' in the club rooms.
One particular year, I ended up getting very very intoxicated (I was 16 at the time) and did a whole bunch of embarrassing shit that I can hardly remember.

1. Stole the mic off the singer of this awful covers band and made them look real good

2. Fell down a flight of stairs and grazed my chin on the concrete.

3. Went home with my coach

4. Peed in his bed

5. Woke up the next morning not knowing where the hell I was and had to walk out onto the street to ring my friend and give her directions to pick me up.

Another time at a party, I cut all my hair off and blamed it on someone else so my bestfriend gave that person a damn good hiding! Sorry Sam....

you sound like the girl of my dreams.

This post by J. Burns/Horsewhip is one of the best/most embarrassing. Actually, I'm not really all that embarrassed by it.

I was also so drunk once that I peed all over a box of books in my closet, before realizing that that I was peeing all over a box of books in my closet.

I was also asked to leave the second-to-last Sleater-Kinney show last summer. Then the lobby. Then two other bars. Then someone called an ambulance when I passed out on the sidewalk. I may have also puked on a BMW.