Chapter One: 10:43AM – WHERE AM I?
Please let me be in my own apartment. After the countless
nights punishing my liver with mass quantities of alcohol over the years, I’ve
awoken in numerous places other than my own bed. I’ve found myself in various
states of disarray on random floors, couches, lawns, and stairwells. In several
closets, backseats, garages, and garden sheds. On top of park benches, picnic
tables, rooftops, and dumpsters. Inside ditches, dugouts, bathtubs, and even a
Porta Potty or two, which trust me — is not recommended. I once even ended up
on that famous grassy knoll after downing tequila shots with a bunch of
conspiracy theorists, but I refuse to acknowledge that publicly, as I swore I’d
never step foot in that damn state full of cowboys which is Texas.
On the flip side, I have frequently awoken in actual
beds, often with a hottie or two. I’ll admit, there may have been a few fatties
and broke-ass bitches sprinkled throughout, but I like to think that the
majority of them were at least an eight or above — a man has to have standards.
So, after yet another night of consuming mass quantities
during my latest binge-drinking triumph, it might be wise to determine whether
I actually made it back home or not. Since it feels like someone shoveled a
shitload of sand in my eyes, I’m not even going to bother trying to open them.
Taking mental inventory by patting myself down, I have my boxers on, but I’m
not wearing any pants. I have no idea where my shoes are, but I’m still wearing
at least one sock. I have on a shirt, but it smells like grass stains and may
be missing a few buttons — that can’t be good. I know I’m on the floor, because
my body currently feels like a fish dying on a slab of concrete.
I’d start checking around my surroundings if I could, but
there’s no way my body could handle exerting that much energy at this
particular moment. I don’t even think I could get up if Jessica Alba was naked
in the room next to me, and was begging to have each and every one of her
orifices filled with my man meat. I mean, I could probably muster up an attempt
to roll myself towards her if she was indeed in the vicinity, but right now I
feel like I was knocked out by a young Mike Tyson after pointing out that he
talks in a little bitch voice. I’m not rolling my ass anywhere.
I start scraping away the gunk caked around my eyes in
hopes of opening them long enough to see if I made it to my apartment or not.
Cracking them the slightest bit, light explodes in, making my corneas feel like
they’re being seared by a metal cow prong. Screw that shit. Since trying to get
home at the moment would be a case in futility anyway, I slam my eyes shut,
deciding to deal with this potential predicament later — much later.
I feel around for what I think is a boot to use as a
pillow, curl up into the fetal position, and drift to sleep dreaming of
shotguns blasting watermelons — back, and to the left.
BLACKOUT DRUNK – EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 15
After a quick stroll down the hall — with a short detour
to flirt with Nicola, Sarah, and Lisa from freshman year Badminton class mixed
in — I locate the small window where they buy back books and get into line.
It’s about eight deep, so I decide to make the best of it by scoping out some
other student hotties walking by. I’m beginning to fantasize about shooting my
wad all over this sexy librarian look’n chick’s glasses when I see this dude I
know from one of my classes running down the hall. Wondering what the fuck is
so damn important that he had to ruin a perfectly good daydream by sprinting, I
throw my backpack at his feet.
“What’s the hurry Phil?” I say to him, now sprawled out
on the floor in front of me.
“Oh, hey Rod,” he says pissed, climbing up off the hard
concrete. “What happened to your pants?”
“Don’t ask,” I utter, realizing I forgot to change them
when I was home.
“Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in Ms. Bochman’s
Psych class in a month!”
“Why, did I miss something important?” I say, not really
worried.
Looking at his watch, he exasperates: “Well, there’s a
midterm worth about half your grade that’s about to start in about five
minutes! You’re coming right?”
“I think I’m going to sit this one out. You have fun
though,” I snicker.
Phil runs off down the hall giving me a peculiar look,
while I go back to waiting. Little does he know that I have acquired many neat
tricks over the years to help me graduate. Remember when I said to go to class
the first day, get the syllabus that lists test dates, and just copy from an
Asian? Well, you also need to make sure you know how many Asians are enrolled
in the class itself. If there’s a dozen or more, you’re usually in the clear of
finding one to sit near when there’s an exam. Any less, you risk not being able
to get a good seat that provides a view of one of their answer sheets. For
classes with this precarious scenario you may need to take preventative
measures. You must create an alternate Asian self.
I usually do this by arranging for a sorority floozy to
give a guy named Wang a blowjob. He agrees to go to class and take tests for
me, and she thinks she’s doing charity work when I tell her Wang only has ten
days to live. I did this for Ms. Bochman’s Psych class and as we speak, I have a
sexually satisfied Chinese Rod Valentine taking my midterm!
The line to sell books has been gradually getting
shorter, and this puny bald dork standing in front of me is now taking money
from an old man that’s jockeying the register. He steps away from the counter
counting his cash, smiling like a hairless Cheshire Cat. The little dweeb is as
happy as a motherfucker.
“Next,” the gray-haired old man with a huge mustache
calls out.
“Yeah, I’d like to sell these two books back,” I declare,
sliding the massive volumes towards him.
“Let me check the inventory. One moment please.”
The old man bookseller goes to the computer in back,
types in the information that will net me my riches, and quickly returns to the
counter.
“I can give you two dollars for this book and nothing for
this one,” he says with a smirk.
“Two dollars! I’d rather use them to wipe my fuck‘n ass!”
“Wipe this buddy,” the geezer whispers, grabbing his
crotch. “Now please step away from the counter.”
“You better hope I don’t step behind this counter, and
smack that squirrel off your face!”
“Step aside now, sir.”
I’m about to hurdle the counter and start choking this
fucker — and his mustache, when I feel someone tapping me on the shoulder.
WANT MORE? BUY THE BOOK!
Christopher Dearman, author of "Santa's Village Gone Wild! Tales of summer fun, hijinx & debauchery as told by the people that worked there," recently released his first published attempt at fiction with his ridiculously vulgar & utterly absurd novel with a twist ending: Blackout Drunk With his permission, we reprinted a couple excerpts. Pick up a copy on Amazon, Kindle, B&N, iTunes or directly from the author at www.blackout-drunk.com - where you can also find seven crazy teaser trailers for it.
BLACKOUT DRUNK teaser trailer mash-up
