Back in 1992 I was a sophomore in college, art school to be precise. Every Thursday night was 2 for 1 Ladies Night in the local club, Funkshuns. Yes, it was spelled that way. The club was all black, with neon spray painted graffiti, black lights and strobe lights. Being poor college students, 2 for 1 drinks always hooked us, and my friend Amelia and I were always game for a late rowdy night of shenanigans. This particular night she had been sick for two days, and was on antibiotics, but feeling much better and ready to rock.
It was the only time we had to do math, if I don’t eat today, I will have enough money for 2 drinks, which equals 4 drinks. If I wear leggings and a cool shirt, as opposed to my usual overalls and doc martins I can probably get at least 3 drinks bought for me, which equals 6 drinks, which totals 10, which equals hours of uninhibited dancing, loud inappropriate laughter, falling over and spins. Perfect.
Being in college in Sarasota Florida had its perks. One of them was that there were many upscale fancy restaurant/bars that had a daily happy hour with free buffets. These were buffets filled with shrimp and tenderloin and cheeses and everything that as college students, we could never afford. The only catch was we could not look like art school students who were there to not buy anything and crash the buffet. We knew this from experience.
It was all suits and business card passing in there, so Amelia and I would put on our best snap-crotch tops (90′s) and short skirts, and it was game on. We would get one drink, and then eat like bulimics, without the throwing up. We would refill our glasses in the bathroom with our private purse stash if no creepy old predators had bought us drinks in hopes of getting at least a rub and a tug. Never. But we had this down to an art form, between my long white-blonde hair, and Amelia’s British accent (real, she was a Brit) we could work that room like a couple of full-fledged (retarded) actresses. We would spin whatever fanciful lies came into our minds about where we worked, lived, etc. It was such a fun game that just rolled off our evil genius tongues. Those were the days.
This was how the night would begin.
Once sufficiently lubricated, and after eating enough food for 4 people, we would head back to change into our club-attire. This was: Black leggings. Tank Top or Black and White Flowy Shirt. Doc Martins. Tight Choker Necklace, Preferably Leather. Pop Swatch. Best part…here it comes…wait for it…The Keep Your Shit Safe At The Club Fanny Pack. Helllllllssssss Yessssssss! What was in it: Camel Lights, lighter, fake ID, weed, bowl, and between 5 and 7 dollars.
We would pull bong hits before we headed over, of course. We’d stroll into the deafening UNSS UNSS UNSS techno beat that went right through your soul before elbowing our way up to the bar to order our vodka tonics. After slugging down a few of them, we would find our spots dancing on top of a speaker somewhere, like we were taught in finishing school. We would then proceed to rock the fuck out to such hits as Jump, Rhythm Is A Dancer, Please Don’t Go, I’m Gonna Get You, and god forbid we forget House Of Pain’s Jump Around.
Flash forward 5 hours and 10 drinks, we are still dancing on the dance floor, and slowly realize there’s no music and the lights are on. Shit. We were trying to get another drink “real quick” because we “missed” last call. No luck and out we go, stumbling down the stairs to my little VW GTI. We both get in, light up a smoke, crank up some more House of Pain and start cruising down the road laughing at god knows what when I realize I’m Staarrrrvvvvinnnnggggg!
So, all fucked up I start “Oh my GOD! You know what would be SOOOOOOO GOOOOOD??!! BLUEBERRY PANCAKESSSSSS! Holy Fuck! We are totally getting blueberry pancakes!” Somehow we manage to pull into an all night breakfast joint and order blueberry stacks fit for a lumberjack. We tore that shit up, laughing and spraying pancake out of our slurry mouths, like we learned in finishing school.
At the end of our binge, we were sooooooo sleeeppppyyyyy, so I had to get Amelia back to her dorm room, because I was living with my “boyfriend”. We weren’t driving 47 seconds when I noticed Amelia hunched over, all white and clammy and shit. She told me I had to pull over. Like. Right. Now.
I pull my car over into some parking lot and as she’s turning sideways and attempting to open her door, she sprays buckets of vile explosive toxic alcohol blueberry vomit all over the inside of the not yet all the way opened car door. It just keeps coming and coming and I’m trying to be a good friend and rub her back and tell her it’s OK, to get it all out without actually throwing up myself from the smell.
She is doubled over sitting in the passenger seat with her feet on the parking lot facing away from me. With the sweatiest, palest, saddest face I have ever seen, she looks back at me with total humiliation and asks in her perfect british accent:
“do you mind if I fart?”
But I didn’t even have time to process how to answer that question, because as soon as the last word was out of her mouth, that fart was out of her ass, and she never should have trusted it, because that fart had been upgraded to full-blown diarrhea. Right there, in the seat, shitting and puking at the same time and I felt so bad for her but it smelled sooooo bad I thought I was going to die. I just kept saying “it’s ok, it’s ok, don’t worry about it sweetie!” As I choked back my own vomit.
For the next 15 minutes my girl let loose from both ends in the most explosively humiliating display I have ever witnessed. She was finally able to stop and sit up in her seat in her shit and pool of vomit with her dark hair pasted to the saddest face I have ever witnessed. We had nothing at all to clean any of it with, so we just started driving back to campus. She was staring out the window, a million miles away in The Land Of Those Who Just Shat Themselves.
We arrive at our campus, right outside her dorm room. She had to walk a short distance to her building, make it to her room, and pray to god that her roommate was asleep. I watched her walk away from the car, she had on black leggings (of course) which helped hide the shit, but her black and white flowy top had some shit showing on the bottom, and the front was covered in puke. I watched her enter the building and drove off.
The next morning/afternoon was about 9000 degrees. I had blown off my morning class but had a test at 2:00 I couldn’t miss. I made some coffee and wandered around my house scratching my head, trying to bring last night’s events into focus. All of the sudden, I remembered. My car. FUCK!
I grabbed a roll of paper towels and headed out to assess the damage. When I opened the door the smell knocked me back 20 feet and brought tears to my eyes as a horrifying bout of dry heaves took control of me. I tore off a huge wad of paper towels to cover my mouth and nose with as I opened both doors to fully examine the crime scene.
Apparently her first bout of explosive vomit was not only sprayed down the window and all over the dash, but almost all of it was fully contained in the pocket on the inside of her door. And it was nearly filled to capacity. I could smell nothing but alcohol and see blueberries in it.
As my eyes scanned the crime scene, they were frozen on the passenger seat.
Seriously? Are you KIDDING me? There was a huge dried puddle of liquid shit caked into the gray fabric upholstery. I was gagging and crying, not to mention hung over and I knew that if I ever wanted to use my car again, I was going to have to be the one to clean it.
I looked at the stupid roll of paper towels that I had thought would be sufficient. Surprise!
I got a bucket, a scrub brush, a gallon of bleach, and any other potential cleaning products I had and headed back out into the sweltering heat for the worst hour of my life. Honestly, I think I would opt for a unenesticized episiotomy before I would do that again. I should have driven it into the Everglades.
For the next month or two it smelled like bleach and blueberries and vodka and toxic tonic vomit shit no matter what I did. But it was nothing in comparison to the rest of Amelia’s night when she got back to her dorm.
She made it through the hallway unscathed, but when she turned the doorknob to her room, her roommate had a couple of guys over hanging out. In something I could only describe as fight or flight instinct, she ran down the hall and straight into the showers, fully clothed. When she returned soaking wet, she made up some half-baked story and fell asleep in those clothes, soaking wet, until about 4:00 the next afternoon.
To this day she won’t drink vodka tonics or eat blueberry pancakes.
And for the next 4 years that I had that car, it looked like someone had spilled a quart of oil on the passenger seat.
Every time I looked at it I would say out loud to myself, in a british accent, “do you mind if I fart?”
Categories: True Stories