scott wrote:I once played a show at the Dome Room. Played bass in an industrial/goth type band. Just the one show, but still, it was pretty embarassing. The singer carved his chest with a razor and drank a bunch of blood. I wasn't wasted or anything, but I was for sure a little drunk.

So, did I win the thread?

Charlie D wrote: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.

yaledelay wrote:wow, and I was going to tell my story about peeing on anouther mans balls... you win sir... you win...

D'Piucchstre wrote:Started to shave off another drunk and passed out guy's hair. --I shaved off about a third of it.

johnnyemphysema wrote:I was camping on an island with my brother and my cousin, we had portaged a small boat onto this piss puddle of a lake in Canada with the intention of drinking and fishing. We built a fire, pitched our tents, caught some fish and drank, and life was good. It didn't take long for us to polish off two bottles of rum when my brother busts out a bottle of scotch...good scotch. The rest of the night is fuzzy but I remember trying to spit flames, and it was relayed to me by my brother that I spent a good hour and a half chasing him around the island naked with a hatchet and eventually set the boat adrift. The next morning I had to swim a half mile a retrieve it.

Eating Noddemix wrote:

D'Piucchstre wrote:Started to shave off another drunk and passed out guy's hair. --I shaved off about a third of it.

Wow. I would seriously beat someone's ass (or at least try to) if he did that to me.