The Hangover: Pre-Papa K Style (Part 2)

Read Part 1 here about how I came to look like this:

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Somewhere in the land between complete blackout and a consciousness I could hear a voice… but it wasn’t registering with me.  The words were there, but they weren’t coming together.  I don’t know where I was or why I was there or really what my name even was!

Suddenly the voice became very clear:  “Chris!  Wake up!  It’s 10:30!”  It was Flapjack (also protecting her identity because she is married to Wolfgang now), Wolfgang’s future wife.

Somehow… I suddenly came to and sat straight up.  “It’s 10:30!”  I said while immediately noticing the room was spinning and I was shirtless and had been laying on a dirty mattress in the corner of Brad’s little rental house.

“Yes… I’ve been here since 9 AM trying to wake you guys up!  What happened last night?” she said as she pointed to Brad and Wolfgang.

In perhaps one of the funniest moments I’d seen up to this point in my life… both of them were laying on Brad’s bed (fully clothed)… spooning each other.

An illustration of spooning

While understanding the barrage of questions Flapjack must have had at that point in time while also wishing I had a camera… I had a bigger issue at hand: I had told my dad I would be home at 9 AM to help him mow our lawn (all 5 acres of it).

I was an hour and a half late.  If I wanted to survive the wrath of my father… I needed to get home… NOW!

With the room still spinning and feeling as thought my head was being squeezed in a vice grip… I scrambled for my belongings.  I quickly realized I didn’t remember where anything was.

I found my shirt in the bathroom then went to the mirror imagining that I must have taken my contacts out and put them somewhere next to the sink before I passed out.  They were nowhere to be found.

It was at this moment I looked in the mirror while brushing a few stale Dorito crumbs off my cheek when I saw a very large rug burn the size of Mikhail Gorbachev’s birthmark on the right side of my forehead.

Yes… it looked something EXACTLY like that!  Except not so far up on my head.

With no time to investigate or contemplate what had happened I rushed to find my keys and hopelessly search a few other places for my contacts.

Upon realizing I was going to have to drive home without the aid of my contacts, a feat not exceptionally easy being that I have the eyesight of a shrew, I positioned myself in front of Flapjack and said, “Okay… how do I look?”

I can only imagine how silly this might have looked to her as I stood in front of her with my eyes looking as though every capillary had busted in them, I had a rug burn the size of McDonald’s cheeseburger on my forehead and a stench of sour alcohol about my person.

Without really missing a beat, she said “Chris… you smell like a bar.”

Great.  There wasn’t anything I could do about it.  I had to get home.

I barreled out the door without saying goodbye, leaving Flapjack and my two buddies to spoon a little while longer.

When the bright morning light hit my eyes my head literally almost exploded.  I understood what it must feel like for the unfortunate undead who get caught outside their coffin when the rising sun pierces the horizon.

This is how I felt.  Except I wasn’t wearing a helmet.  And I’m not that tan.  And I didn’t have a goatee.  Whatever… it was the best picture I could find to illustrate the way it felt.

Fighting back spontaneous combustion and the urge to retch, I climbed into my truck and took off.

I thought of different excuses to tell my father when I got home… but none of them really explained why I smelled like a dirty, beer soaked bar coaster.  I didn’t know what I was going to say.

It was 11AM when I finally pulled into my parent’s house… a full two hours from the time I said I was going to be home.  My dad was already on his Kubota tractor.   This was a blessing because the flying grass and dust that surrounded my father would mask the smell of the alcohol that was now pooling up as sweat on my brow.

Kubota tractor: front end loader, rototiller, lawnmower and supreme masker of kids with rug burns on their forehead soaked in alcohol

I carried myself to meet my dad somewhere in the middle of the yard.  I was prepared to take the full brunt of the tongue lashing I was undoubtedly going to receive.  I conveniently positioned my self in a dust cloud to mask any wafts of Southern Comfort my dad might catch in his flared nostrils.

Dad put the lawn mower in neutral and sat there, staring off into space with a look on his face like he was six and just lost his puppy.  For a few awkward moments we sat there and he finally spoke up, “Where were you?”

“Man, Dad… I just overslept.  We stayed up late and… uh… watched some movies!  I told them to wake me up at nine but they were still asleep when I left!” I said semi-convincingly.

I was ecstatic the smell of ground grass and dust was keeping my stench from eroding my dad’s olfactory senses… I’d really lucked out in that respect.

My dad then turned his gaze from whatever he was staring at in the sky to look at me and say something incredibly deep to make me think about what I had done… but stopped,  “What happened to your forehead?”

I was so wrapped up in my good fortune concerning the masking of my stank aroma that I had forgotten about hockey puck sized rug burn on my forehead.

I stammered.

“Uh… Well… you know how guys are dad.  There were other people over there and Brad always wants to show that he’s stronger than me so he challenged me to a wrestling match.  I just hit my head on the carpet that’s all.”

My dad just shook his head, lowered his gaze in extreme disappointment, sanctioned out my chores, then returned his lawn mower to “full mowing” power and took off… leaving me to stand there and think about what I’d done.

I was actually able to complete my chores… but not before I dropped behind a stone wall by the garage where I could not be seen and threw up my liver and small intestine.  Grass never grew there again.

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You may be asking:  “So… how did you get that rug burn the size of a small cat on your forehead?”

It was a mystery for a little while.  I came to find out that Wolfgang also wound up with a bruise on his chest that ran horizontally from one underarm to the other.  Turns out he didn’t remember how he got that either.

Brad was the only one who could fill the memory gap… and he could barely do that.

Apparently… I was outside throwing up what can be similarly compared to crude oil when Wolfgang told Brad to “watch this!”  He proceeded to run up and punch me in the face.

After recoiling and regaining my composure… I chased Wolfgang back into the house where I promptly tackled him over Brad’s weight set.  Wolfgang landed on Brads curl bar, explaining the bruise on his chest, and I created a divot in the carpet with my forehead.

I envision it looking something like this… except I wasn’t riding a horse.  And I wasn’t a woman.  And I wasn’t outside.  And it was on carpet not grass… I think you get it by now that I have NO PICTURES of this occurance so I’m trying to keep you involved in the story and this is the best way I know how!

After that… Brad couldn’t even really remember.  He vaguely remembered cramming chips and crackers into my mouth to “soak up the alcohol”… but that was about it. 

I think that after slamming Wolfgang onto Brad’s weight set while mixing my forehead DNA with the carpet… I started to pass out on Brad’s dirty mattress in the corner of his room.  Brad must have worried I was never going to wake up so he tried to forcibly feed me junk food.  With no avail in getting me to regain the ability to function, he left me on discarded mattress to sleep it off (or die).  My contacts must have worked their way to the back of my eyeball… and dissolved into my head.

Then Brad and Wolfgang had a nightcap.

I’m kidding…  I think.

Believe it or not… this wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve done in my life.  I did walk 15 miles to get to my car once… but we’ll save that for another post.