Although I rarely drink these days, there was a time when I drank more regularly, at parties or on weekends, with friends and family, though rarely to excess. I've never blacked out nor been hungover (thankfully) - I've always known when I was reaching my limit and that if I went beyond it, I would wind up praying to the porcelain God so I've always held back from pushing my limits. I'm also a giggly drunk, which seems to run in the family, so when I've been drinking, my silliness comes out even more than usual. All that preamble probably sounds like a huge rationalization for thinking it was a good idea to drive drunk, which is not how it's intended to sound. It was stupid, but I did it. At least I have humorous memories of the events.
The first time I drove drunk was in college. I was home visiting family and hanging out with my cousin Jimmy. He's a few years younger than me and was still in high school at the time. He and I are close - more like brothers. He even lived with my family for a short time while in middle school. After splitting 1 ½ cases of Mickey's malt liquor, we started to drive home from a party but got hungry during the thirty minute trek. As we pulled out of the parking lot of the convenience store we had stopped at, my cousin asked me if I wanted a pickle. No doubt I was tipsy, maybe even drunk, but clearly remembered that neither of us paid for any pickles. He reached into his pocket and produced two lint covered dill pickles he shoplifted from the barrel in front of the deli. We ate our treats and returned home safely.
Many years after that, on a night that I was again hanging out with my cousin Jimmy, we closed a few bars before calling it a night. Fortunately, we knew that we were going to be drinking excessively and had the forethought to be dropped off at the first bar so we wouldn't be tempted to drive home. We drunk walked approximately thirty blocks to his parents house. We had finished off many racks of billiard balls and even more pitchers of beer so even after our walk, and the occasional stop to water someone's lawn, we were still pretty tipsy. As my cousin passed out on the couch, I went to the kitchen to raid the fridge. Much to my delight, I found a whole roasted chicken which I quickly scooped up and took with me as I left the house.
In those days, I rode a motorcycle in the Summer, and propped the chicken on the back of it while I rode home. Although it was only ten blocks to my house, it wasn't until after I got home that I realized I never strapped the chicken down. I'm still not sure why it didn't fall off when I took each turn. At home, I pigged out and went to sleep.
The next afternoon, I visited my cousin and his family. My cousin was still asleep and his parents were pissed. It seems that at some point during the night, my cousin awoke from the couch and went to the fridge to find something to eat. He passed out with the fridge door open, his head resting in the crisper tray (his mother found him). One of their dogs took the open fridge as an opportunity to enjoy a buffet of food he wasn't normally allowed to eat, and there were remnants of food strewn throughout the kitchen. The one item that my aunt was most upset about was the roasted chicken. It was missing and she assumed their dog ate it. To this day, the only one who knows I'm the dog that ate it is my cousin, who still find the whole chain of events funny.
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