Content © 2012-2017 by American IronHorse Owners Organization.  Use of AIH Logo Licensed by American Ironhorse, LLC
Epic Drunks We’ve all got a “this one time, I got really wasted” story.  Some of us might even have several.  My own experiences may not be the most outrageous but I do have a couple that I wouldn’t care to relive again, such as the time I wound up buck-naked in a tree singing “George of the Jungle” at the top of my lungs.  No… that one I’ll just keep to myself.  The first time I ever got liquored up was, without a doubt, the worst.  I was 16 and at Myrtle Beach, a local mecca for rednecks, people from New Jersey and spring break high-schoolers like us.  We were using my parents’ travel trailer which they kept at Ocean Lakes campground.   Our group consisted of four stupid, testosterone crazed boys chaperoned by a friend’s father, recruited by us for his willingness on many previous occasions to give us enough rope to hang ourselves, i.e.: “the Cool Dad.”  That night, our plan was to get hammered and party like rock stars, whatever that meant.  I got the first part accomplished in fine style with a bottle of Bacardi 151, illegally purchased with a fake I.D.  It was pretty nasty stuff to my delicate, 16 year old palate, so I wound up drinking a large glass - straight - one gulp at a time and chasing it with lots of water to keep from gagging and frying my tonsils.  As a freshly minted “drinking man,” it didn’t take long and the last thing I remember is staggering around the campsite with a water jug in each hand attempting to stay upright.  Why the water jugs?  How should I know?  I was drunk!  Maybe they were for balance...  To be clear, I wasn’t just drunk, but blitzed, blotto, pissed, plastered and royally shit-faced all at once.  My friends had to tell me what happened next because I remembered almost nothing the following day. My buddies had been inside playing spades and drinking beer when they noticed I had been gone for a while.  They went looking and found me outside on top of a collapsed lounge chair, babbling incoherently.  Not one of our own chairs, mind you, but a neighbor’s who - fortunately – was not there at the time.  To sober me up, I was escorted (okay, dragged) down to the beach and tossed in the surf where I flopped around for a few minutes cackling with delight.  In my mind I probably thought I was body surfing.  That didn’t work, so I was retrieved before I could drown myself.  I had completely lost all mobility and was alternating between fits of giggling, slack-jawed contemplation and well thought out speeches on world politics.  That last is only a guess but my pals understood the words “Nixon” and what sounded line “Mao Tse-tung,” (although really it could have been anything). Our next stop was the campground shower facility.  On the way, we were confronted by a group of fat redneck chicks – the kind with lots of tattoos, greasy hair and dubious oral hygiene.   One asked “What’s wrong with him?”  My best buddy and friend for life said “Watch this” and then let go of me.  I immediately executed a flawless face plant and wound up with my cheek resting comfortably on a standard, K-Mart issue flip flop occupied by a hairy foot with different colored toenails.  No, they weren’t painted that way – just seriously nasty toes which were a perfect match for the owner’s poor oral hygiene.  As the young lady backed up I rolled over in the dirt and offered up a proposal of marriage (I dispute the veracity of this assertion but all three of my friends stick to the story even to this day).  We continued on to the shower facility where the largest of our crew held me in a full-nelson under cold water.  This was no longer a fruitless attempt to sober me up but an expedient way to wash off all the vomit which by now was spewing forth in great volume from my nose, mouth, and probably even my ears; kind of like a human sprinkler (I actually remember that part).  After purging everything including some Gummi Bears that I ate way back in the eighth grade, I was carried back to the campsite, dry heaving every step of the way. Our illustrious chaperone was shaking his head and laughing as he fed me a mixture of warm water and French’s yellow mustard to stop the uncontrollable retching.  Disgusting, I know, but apparently it worked.  Finally, I passed out. When I regained consciousness the following morning I found myself outside under the picnic table with one ankle tied to a beer cooler with a dog leash.  The purpose was twofold: to keep the mess outside if I barfed again and also to discourage me from wandering off.  For some reason I was only wearing my underwear.  I smelled awful and my hair was stiff and sticking up on one side from some errant purging.  The tops of my feet were bloody scabs from all the dragging which really had me wondering just what the hell had happened.  The only real side effect from my evening of overindulgence was a run down, fuzzy feeling.  I was horrified to hear about my experience from the rest of the crew but we all agreed that it was, indeed, “epic.”  The other guys were fine because after seeing me in such fine form they decided to ease off the beer drinking.  Bacardi 151?  To this day I won’t touch the stuff.  I also tend to shy away from Tequila because, as previously noted, it makes me take my clothes off, climb trees and start singing but that’s a story best kept for another day.
January 1, 2015
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ORGANIZATION ORGANIZATION OWNERS OWNERS For All American Ironhorse Motorcycle Owners
Fat Max
© 2012-2017   American IronHorse Owners Organization Use of AIH Logo Licensed by American Ironhorse, LLC 
Epic Drunks We’ve all got a “this one time, I got really wasted” story.  Some of us might even have several.  My own experiences may not be the most outrageous but I do have a couple that I wouldn’t care to relive again, such as the time I wound up buck-naked in a tree singing “George of the Jungle” at the top of my lungs.  No… that one I’ll just keep to myself.  The first time I ever got liquored up was, without a doubt, the worst.  I was 16 and at Myrtle Beach, a local mecca for rednecks, people from New Jersey and spring break high-schoolers like us.  We were using my parents’ travel trailer which they kept at Ocean Lakes campground.   Our group consisted of four stupid, testosterone crazed boys chaperoned by a friend’s father, recruited by us for his willingness on many previous occasions to give us enough rope to hang ourselves, i.e.: “the Cool Dad.”  That night, our plan was to get hammered and party like rock stars, whatever that meant.  I got the first part accomplished in fine style with a bottle of Bacardi 151, illegally purchased with a fake I.D.  It was pretty nasty stuff to my delicate, 16 year old palate, so I wound up drinking a large glass - straight - one gulp at a time and chasing it with lots of water to keep from gagging and frying my tonsils.  As a freshly minted “drinking man,” it didn’t take long and the last thing I remember is staggering around the campsite with a water jug in each hand attempting to stay upright.  Why the water jugs?  How should I know?  I was drunk!  Maybe they were for balance...  To be clear, I wasn’t just drunk, but blitzed, blotto, pissed, plastered and royally shit-faced all at once.  My friends had to tell me what happened next because I remembered almost nothing the following day. My buddies had been inside playing spades and drinking beer when they noticed I had been gone for a while.  They went looking and found me outside on top of a collapsed lounge chair, babbling incoherently.  Not one of our own chairs, mind you, but a neighbor’s who - fortunately – was not there at the time.  To sober me up, I was escorted (okay, dragged) down to the beach and tossed in the surf where I flopped around for a few minutes cackling with delight.  In my mind I probably thought I was body surfing.  That didn’t work, so I was retrieved before I could drown myself.  I had completely lost all mobility and was alternating between fits of giggling, slack- jawed contemplation and well thought out speeches on world politics.  That last is only a guess but my pals understood the words “Nixon” and what sounded line “Mao Tse-tung,” (although really it could have been anything). Our next stop was the campground shower facility.  On the way, we were confronted by a group of fat redneck chicks – the kind with lots of tattoos, greasy hair and dubious oral hygiene.   One asked “What’s wrong with him?”  My best buddy and friend for life said “Watch this” and then let go of me.  I immediately executed a flawless face plant and wound up with my cheek resting comfortably on a standard, K-Mart issue flip flop occupied by a hairy foot with different colored toenails.  No, they weren’t painted that way – just seriously nasty toes which were a perfect match for the owner’s poor oral hygiene.  As the young lady backed up I rolled over in the dirt and offered up a proposal of marriage (I dispute the veracity of this assertion but all three of my friends stick to the story even to this day).  We continued on to the shower facility where the largest of our crew held me in a full-nelson under cold water.  This was no longer a fruitless attempt to sober me up but an expedient way to wash off all the vomit which by now was spewing forth in great volume from my nose, mouth, and probably even my ears; kind of like a human sprinkler (I actually remember that part).  After purging everything including some Gummi Bears that I ate way back in the eighth grade, I was carried back to the campsite, dry heaving every step of the way. Our illustrious chaperone was shaking his head and laughing as he fed me a mixture of warm water and French’s yellow mustard to stop the uncontrollable retching.  Disgusting, I know, but apparently it worked.  Finally, I passed out. When I regained consciousness the following morning I found myself outside under the picnic table with one ankle tied to a beer cooler with a dog leash.  The purpose was twofold: to keep the mess outside if I barfed again and also to discourage me from wandering off.  For some reason I was only wearing my underwear.  I smelled awful and my hair was stiff and sticking up on one side from some errant purging.  The tops of my feet were bloody scabs from all the dragging which really had me wondering just what the hell had happened.  The only real side effect from my evening of overindulgence was a run down, fuzzy feeling.  I was horrified to hear about my experience from the rest of the crew but we all agreed that it was, indeed, “epic.”  The other guys were fine because after seeing me in such fine form they decided to ease off the beer drinking.  Bacardi 151?  To this day I won’t touch the stuff.  I also tend to shy away from Tequila because, as previously noted, it makes me take my clothes off, climb trees and start singing but that’s a story best kept for another day.
January 1, 2015
Want to contact Fat Max? email Fat Max ...
ORGANIZATION ORGANIZATION OWNERS OWNERS
Fat Max