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Drunken Monks…

Back when I was around 13 years old I picked up the great sport of golf. I still remember my first time on the driving range… the course “pro” came out to give me a quick lesson and before long I was smacking the golf ball out to the 100 yard marker. At the time, 100 yards seemed phenomenal to me and I was hooked right away!

I immediately took my meager paper route wages and bought myself a golf bag and a single club… a putter (I remember this because I used to catch shit from the drunks at the pro shop when I’d go in, “Look at this kid! He’s so good he only needs a putter! BAHAHA”). My parents paid for a Junior Club Membership and I spent the majority of the summer at the local course. I would rent shitty old antique clubs from the pro shop and practice on the range and putting greens for hours on end, rarely playing more than a couple of “real” holes. I eventually got my own full set of clubs, slowly improved my game and over the next 5 years I played many, many rounds of golf. I was never an exceptional golfer, but I would consistently shoot mid to high 80’s and it was a great way to spend a summer day.

Eventually the world caught up to me and work/partying took priority over relaxing rounds of early morning golf. I would play the odd round here and there, but it’s an expensive hobby to maintain as you get older. By the summer of 2008, at the age of 23, I was playing a round or 2 per year, tops. So, when my employer sent out an email about their yearly golf scramble, I was all over it.

Three buddies and I decided to enter into the scramble. I hadn’t golfed in over a year, 2 others had played once or twice in their lives and the 4th, so far as I know, had never even touched a club. This was of no concern, though, as we were in it for the day of drinking beer and destroying golf carts; not setting the course record. Golf was just an unnecessary by-product of such an adventure.

It was announced that there would also be prizes given out for the “best dressed” team. As much as we would surely suck at golfing, it seemed appropriate that we at least make asses of ourselves fashionably. However, we had no idea what direction to go with our costumes. We decided to start by thinking up a fitting name for our team and then dress accordingly. After much discussion and many hilarious ideas, we finally settled on the “Secret Brotherhood of Balls and Shaft”. We all agreed that this name was inappropriate, crude, hilarious and semi golf related. It was perfect!

With that name, it was decided that the only logical way to go with our costumes would be to dress as monks… and then get absolutely shittered drunk while chasing a small white ball around the course. This was going to be great!

The next day, three of us went to a local costume shop to check out their stock. To make matters worse, the only “costume shop” in town is actually a frilly bridal shop that stocks rental costumes in the back room. Not only that, but because it’s a small business with erratic hours, we actually had to make an appointment to see them. So, to reiterate, three dudes made an appointment to visit a bridal shop together on our lunch break… a horribly emasculating experience, to say the very least. However, it was an acceptable means to an end. If we wanted to be drunken monks on the golf course, sacrifices would have to be made… I mean, it can’t get any gayer then this… right?? Boy was I wrong…

It turns out that we couldn’t find anything we liked at the bridal shop. They didn’t have 4 of any particular costumes and had nothing even remotely resembling monk robes. The bridal shop was a complete waste of time and masculinity.

Feeling defeated we had to quickly make a decision. It was Wednesday and the golf scramble was only days away. Our options were to 1) Give up on the costume idea all together 2) Choose different costumes or 3) Make our own. We quickly decided that it couldn’t hurt to look into making our own… I mean, how hard can it be to make monk robes??

Still with time to kill on our lunch break, we headed over to the local WalMart. Our original plan was just to have a look around but, 20 minutes later, we were leaving with almost $100 worth of cloth, thread, templates and sewing supplies. Things had entered a whole new level of man-on-man love…

The hardest part of it all was making the phone call to my mother and asking to borrow her sewing machine so I could have the guys over for a sewing party. I could sense the shock in her silence on the other end of the line. After some explanation and assurances that it was unavoidable (and promises of grand babies in the future), she agreed to give me a crash course on sewing when I went to pick it up later that night.

Once the sewing machine was picked up and I shown how to load and operate it, there was no turning back. Two of my golf buddies Jeff and RJ came over that Thursday night and we got to work. Well… Jeff and I did, anyways. RJ lent moral support, provided YouTube video entertainment and took stealthy cell phone pictures of me while I was sewing and posted them online for everyone to ridicule. Fuckin dick.

We ended up not using any templates or directions and just winging it. We used hockey sticks as straight edges and all sorts of non-sewing related tools to fabricate our suits. We dove in head first with no real idea how to tackle confusing things like hoods and sleeves (getting a hood sewn on so all the seams are all right is a complete MIND FUCK)… but 2 solid nights of sewing later we had 4 custom tailored monk robes. Each one sized exactly to fit the corresponding member of the Brotherhood. To top them off we cut out paper templates and spray painted our acronym (SBBS) on the backs of the robes in black fabric paint. Screw being modest… the things looked bad-fucking-ass!

I was very proud of what we had made, with no prior experience or knowledge. We finished the whole outfit off with some ropes for belts and, with that, we were 100% done and ready to hit the links in style!

I made the decision, not long after, that I was going to go for the gold medal and try to break my own personal record for daily alcohol consumption. Being a bit of a drinker, this was going to be no small feat, but I was certainly up for the challenge. It seemed like such an appropriate day to start early and drink like my life depended on it.

So I got up the next morning at 7:30am, grabbed a quick shower, put on my monk robe and cracked my first beer before 8:00am. I loaded up my golf bag with as many beers as I could fit and waited for my ride. By the time I got picked up at 8:30ish I was already a few beers in. The sun was shining and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was hot, but not too hot, and it was giving great weather to be on the golf course. It was going to be a glorious day!

We got to the course and everyone was signing in and getting ready to play. Most people stood around conversing with co-workers over coffee and normal breakfast eats… I had a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other. Classy. We managed to get ourselves one shitty golf cart for all four of us. The cart had seen better days (to put it very lightly) and after carting 900+lbs of drunken idiocy around for a day, I’d say it was pretty much a write off by the time we were done. But, it sure beat walking!

It was a shotgun start and we started, along with another foursome, on hole number 12. It was a 4 person best ball scramble, so everyone shoots and then moves to the location of the “best” shot, then rinse and repeat. Playing 9 holes, best ball, with a cart and lots of beer goes by quite quickly. I’m sure it took a few hours, but it felt like only a few minutes at most.

We managed to shoot a +2, which is pretty respectable for a group of drunken non-golfers, but best of all we managed to run over 3 out of 4 members of SBBS with our cart. For example, I fell off the cart on hole 11 and somehow had just my right ass cheek run over… explain that one! All injuries were minor (except for the ones to the golf cart) and we managed to make it through the round with no major problems.

At this point, it was still early, probably around noon, and we went back to the club house for the “Award Ceremony”.

We sat inside drinking and eating pizza, waiting for our names to be called for “Best Costume”. Surely no one can compete with our handmade monk robes, right? Wrong. We lost to poorly put together “nerd” costumes worn by ass-kissing friends of the judges. Fucking rigged, I tells you!

Either way, RJ won a chair or something and I won a super small Team Canada hockey jersey in random door prize draws, so we didn’t leave completely empty handed. Before we left I recall taking a decent slam of Fireball from someone’s pint and, it was at this point that I realized… I have a decent buzz on! Thank you again, Dr. McGillicuddy.

When I finally got back home my golf bag was much lighter and I was somewhere around a dozen beers in at this point. Jeff dropped me off and I drank a few more while I changed into my dirty mechanic clothes and got ready to help RJ and the boys with a little car project. There’s nothing I like better then drinking beer and turning wrenches on a nice sunny summer afternoon! So, I brought the rest of my flat with me and headed over to RJ’s to give them a hand.

Things start to get kind of foggy for me from this point on. It was blistering hot out by now and the boys were working on the car in the middle of the street. The sun was beating down on us and the asphalt was like a god damn frying pan. My beer was piss warm but I was knocking them back as I basically played supervisor. I don’t honestly think I touched a tool the whole time I was there. Probably a good thing, as I was getting pretty sloppy by then. I do remember, at some point, sitting down on the curb to have a little rest. I closed my eyes for what felt like seconds yet, when I came to, the sun was much lower in the sky and they had made significant progress on the car project. I could feel the tingly sensation of a sunburn over my face, arms and legs. My half full beer was still in my hand and it was hot now, but I hadn’t spilled a drop. I drank it anyway.

I stumbled over to RJ and watched as they all laughed at me. “Shit, how long was I out for, man?” I asked, still groggy and no less drunk.

“Dude, you were out cold for what?” he looked at his buddy who shrugs, “I dunno, 2 hours… maybe a little more.”

Wow. How unfortunate. I decided that I needed to make up for the 2 hour interlude by shotgunning 3 beers – one right after the other. Possibly a bad idea (the first of many to come), but just sipping on warm brews is not enjoyable.

I saw my camera sitting on the ground and picked it up to scan through the photos from earlier that day. I was getting a kick out of the golfing pictures as I flipped through them. I switched pictures and it took me a moment to realize what I was looking at… it was a picture of me, in my mechanics clothes, lying on the lawn. Hmm… I didn’t recall posing for any pictures. I zoomed in and just had to laugh. Apparently, while I was passed out, they had used my camera to take a series of pictures of me.

“Hey! What the fuck guys? Are these pictures of me passed out?”

“haha Yea,” RJ laughed, “while you were passed out we poured water on you with a hose to make it look like you pissed yourself and then took pictures. But, the joke was a flop because you didn’t even move. You were like a corpse until your beer, which you had been holding straight up the whole time you were out, started to tilt, then you’d grunt and hold it up proper and then be out again.” hahahah wow.

I guess I was just a little bit more intoxicated than I had previously thought. This made me very happy!

I killed the last beer in my flat sometime around supper time. My memories are very scattered from here on but, with the help of some good buddies, I was able to reconstruct some of the events for this story…

A shining example of my state of mind after drinking all day… a young girl, like 5 years old maybe, drives by on her bicycle…

Me: “Hey baby, you got a older sister?”

Older, sober, muscley friend of RJ’s: “Duuude.. what the fuck? You can’t say shit like that to kids. I have a little girl myself…”

Me: *more inappropriate comments that I don’t recall*

Older, sober, muscley friend of RJ’s: *SLAP*

I have no memory of getting hit, but I guess I got open handed hard, right in the face. I deserved it, no doubt, and I recognized this at the time, so I don’t think I even got mad. Things weren’t going to get any better and this wouldn’t be the last time my mouth gets me in trouble that day…

Moving on, I went inside to see if RJ had any beer. Happily, someone gave me one and I began conversating with the female figures inside. I don’t remember what the general topics were, nor even if they were listening or responding, I just remember my mouth moving. At some point, however, I must have begun to complain about my cell phone and how it had been acting up lately.

“Look at this piece of shit, the screen doesn’t work unless you bend it around like this…” *CRACK* “Hmm… fuck.”

I had just practically ripped my phone in half, splintering the screens both inside and outside the phone, rendering it completely useless. Wonderful. So, I did what any normal person in this situation would do… I begged relentlessly until someone finally agreed to bring me to the liquor store.

At first, no one seemed to be willing to take me, and they just ignored my pleas, but eventually RJ broke down and gave in. I would have to guess he probably did it just to get me away from their house before I went all Meathead on it. Either way, already 24-25 beer in, I picked up another 8 pack and a 1 litre bottle of Bacardi Breezer orange cooler. I don’t know why, but it just looked so damn tasty to me sitting on the shelf. I had to have it! Probably a bad idea…

Looking back, I’m surprised they would actually even sell me booze in the state that I was in.

I commented about this later on to RJ to which he replied, “You were barely mobile, your pants had been ripped through the crotch and one of your back pockets was missing, you were beat red from sun burn and you couldn’t talk at all. How they were able to serve you, I have no fucking idea…”

After restocking my alcohol supply, I got dropped off back at my apartment. There was no way I was going to drink alone, so I made some quick calls and eventually had a couple buddies over to continue the debauchery.

With reinforcements called in, I finished the bottle of Breezer coolers in a matter of minutes and went back to work on my new 8 pack. I was in a drunken time warp, so time was going by at an unexplainable rate, but I managed to kill my last 8 pack by the time we hopped a cab to the local bar. Actually, now that I think about it, I think we might have actually convinced one of my greasy neighbours to drive us to the bar for $10. I’m surprised I have any memory at all, but that sounds sort of familiar…

Regardless, I do remember a few things from the bar… but not apparently everything. I heard many things over the next few weeks describing things I said/did that night, most of which were a complete surprise to me. Time was still in hyper mode, so the bar felt like it went by a matter of seconds.

Things that I do remember: Going to the Steamers side of the Red Knight and meeting up with a buddy of mine sitting at the bar.


He proceeded to give me the most logical, thoughtful and appropriate response possible… “LET’S DO SHOTS!!!”

So we did. Tequila, my kryptonite, was probably a less then brilliant idea, but he was buying. Then I think we rocked out with some ‘Pornstars’, or some sort of girly shot, as a “cool down” round afterwards… I was now fucked even worse. Obviously not knowing when to say when, I grabbed a couple beers and took off to socialize.

I remember nothing else about the actual bar itself. The next thing I remember was being outside after closing time. I was in a group of people, talking and generally just being an asshole… normal stuff. My good buddy Chris introduced me to his girlfriend at the time. I remember meeting her but I don’t remember anything said. I think I was probably rude, but said it in a funny way… so she liked me. At least I think she said later that she thought I was funny that night. Anyhow, the reason I bring this up is that, while I was talking to Chris and his girl, another girl worked her way into the conversation.

Chris, who was drunk, but not nearly as bad as me, motions over to me and says, “Dan, you remember Alicia, right? From High School?”

I looked over and, sure enough, I recognized her. I never knew her too well, but we were in classes together for years. She looked like she got more attractive then I recalled, but also looked more “ghetto” then I remembered (not in a bad way and nothing with how she dressed or anything, she just gave an air of being more “hardass” somehow). She smiled and began to talk to me like her long lost best friend. This weirded drunken Dan out.

“Daaan, yes I remember you. Remember when… *blah blah blah*…”

I zoned her out. I had no interest in talking to her, but she seemed legitimately happy to see me. I tried my very best to be friendly, but my drunk version of A.D.D. had me squirming before she finished her first sentence. I suddenly got a weird compulsion and just went with it. Mid-sentence I just slowly reached my hand out…

“…back in class when we used to…” *honk honk* I muckled onto her boobs for no reason other than I felt like it. Her expression changed immediately from friend to enemy. I just gave her a blank “So what?” kinda stare back. I could see Chris laughing through my peripherals. Seconds later the ghetto I had sensed came out of Alicia in full force…

“The fuck do you think you’re doin son?? My boyfriend is gonna killlll you boooi!”

I was unphased. Although, apparently, her boyfriend is one of the most notorious gangsters/dealers in our town. I didn’t even know he was out of prison at the time. Probably a bad thing for me. Luckily, slightly less drunk Chris was able to talk her down and help her to see the humour in my unsolicited boob grab. From what he told me, things were “cool” with her and I before I left. I hope to hell this is true…

The next thing I remember is my best buddy Joel pouring himself out of the doors of the bar with a girl under each arm and one trailing behind. He saw me outside and immediately came over, “Daaaan buddy! haaaa What’s up man? Where’s the after party at??”

At this point, I definitely could have used some sleep. I’d been drinking for over 20 hours straight by this moment, but one of the girls with him was a total knockout. She was a girl that I’d had a small crush on for ages and we always flirted when we saw each other. It was always just a friendly thing, and she was definitely not interested in me, but I didn’t care at the time. Fuck it!

“Let’s go back to my apartment! I think I have some booze there somewheres…” I replied, to the dismay of the small shred of sober-Dan somewhere deep down inside.

We piled into a car with the three girls. It turns out they were actually all sisters: the girl I knew, her twin sister (not nearly as awesome as it sounds, as they don’t look much alike at all) and their younger “single mother” sister. I guess the gorgeous girl was pretty drunk and I think her two sisters were sober. They must have thought we were all retarded…

Joel was just about as drunk as I was, it seemed, and he had been at a wedding earlier that day and was still wearing a white dress shirt and tie. He may have looked the part, but that’s where the classiness ended. We were both fucking tanked!

When we finally got to my apartment I dug deep into the freezer and came up with the bottom bit of a bottle of tequila. It was left over from the night about 6 months prior when I drank so much that I shit myself (see “The Tequila shits” story). Out came the 2oz shot glasses and Joel and I laid it to waste, one shot after another. More bad ideas!

The next thing I (sort of) remember was showing off and doing a mini fashion show for all of the girls in my handmade monk robe. All the while, Joel was raiding my fridge. I had no idea what he was doing, because I certainly didn’t have any food.

“Joel buddy, what are you doin man? Don’t waste your time. I definitely have nothing worth eating…”

He waved me off, “Naw man, wait, wait… you gotta see this…” and he kept digging around.

Seconds later he came out with an arm full of random condiments; ketchup, mustard, mayo, etc. and laid them all out on the counter. Once he was prepared, he called us all over and seemed to be very excited about whatever was about to happen. Curious, we all crowded around him as he grabbed the full bottle of ketchup.

Joel popped open the cap and smiled, “Watch this!” he said as he began to squirt ketchup all over his crisp white dress shirt.

All the girls gasped and I began to lose my shit laughing. Maybe he was drunker than I thought? As the girls started to protest he just kept pushing them away and telling them to wait. He then walked over to the sink, grabbed a wet dish cloth, turned his back to us all and proceeded to wipe off his shirt. About 10 seconds later he turned around and TADA!! His shirt was completely clean! Wet… but still pure white.

“It’s a stain-proof shirt! hahaha” he said, smiling proudly.

This occupied all of our drunken time for the next 15 minutes or so. We pelted him with everything we could think of and, sure enough, it all wiped clean. I never saw it the next day, but I assume that it’s still white… I was impressed. All clothes should be made of this magic material… well, all of mine anyways.

Once we had exhausted the entertainment value of the shirt, we all ended up sitting on my couch, surfin the net and listening to tunes. Sadly, all of the booze was gone and things were starting to wind down for the night.

I was on the far right side of the couch with 2 girls to my left. Joel was across from me on the love seat with one of the sisters. As I sat there, listening to the drunken conversations, it hit me… I was going to puke! Fuck.

It was bordering on 4:00am by this point, which means that I was 21+ hours into my epic day of drinking. I’d estimate I had roughly 36 beer, a good slam of Fireball, a shot of tequila and a pornstar at the bar, 2 more double shots of tequila when I got home, a 1 litre bottle of Bacardi Breezer coolers and God only knows what else… my body was calling it quits and I knew from the cold sweating and spinning that the rest of my night was going to be spent praying to the porcelain gods.

I wanted to be as classy as possible in my exit, but I knew it was now or never. I stood up and excused myself in a very gentlemanly fashion. I stepped over the women as I said, “You’ll have to excuse me for a moment, ladies.”

They smiled and nodded. I smiled back (keep in mind this is how I remember it… it may or may not have went down this “gracefully”). I walked back to my bathroom as calmly as possible and, as soon as I reached the doorway, I dropped to my knees and violently threw up into the toilet. For those of you who have never been to my apartment, it’s very small. I was maybe 15 feet away from the couch with the door wide open. My classy cover was blown. I didn’t care. I was in the midst of one of the worst alcohol induced sickness’ of my life. All the fluid and junk from the day was coming back to kick my ass. To say it was horrible is a gross understatement. I wanted to fucking die

I was in the bathroom for a while, lying on the floor, still unsure if I was going to live through it or not. I could hear everyone out in my living room talking and laughing. I wished I could be there. That’s when I heard the stunningly hot girl pipe up, “I’m gonna go check on Dan” she said.

Uh oh. This won’t be good.

I was still on the floor when she came in to see me. I tried my best to “man up” and retain some sort of respect. I rolled to my side and tried to act alive. She bent down and was rubbing my back and smiling at me. Fuck , it felt great… I didn’t want it to end, but I could feel another wave of nausea coming on.

I rolled onto my stomach, with her still crouched beside me. I reached up and grabbed the rim of the toilet bowl and gave it all I had just to pull my chin up to the bowl. With my chin resting on the rim, barely on all fours, I began to heave. At the exact same time, with no warning, I accidentally unleashed the wettest, sloppiest, loudest fart possible. So bad, in fact, that I actually began laughing mid-puke. This caused the fart to change in pitch and it became erratic, like a motor about to stall.

There was a short silence after I finally finished that felt like an eternity. If my face wasn’t already firetruck red from being passed out in the sun, I’m sure I would have blushed for the only time in recent memory.

From the living room, my buddy Joel broke the awkward silence, “ATTA BOY DANNY!! WOOOO!! ” followed by an eruption of laughter from him and the sisters.

The hottie, still knelt beside me with her hand now covering her nose, just gave a cute little “teehee” laugh and said “Oh my…” as she stood up, stepped over my lifeless, smelly body and quickly retreated back into the living room. Shit.

I was officially wrote the fuck off from here on. I sort of remember still lying on the floor when Joel came in to tell me they were going to take off. I don’t remember this, but he said later that I had pulled him down close and began to beg him, “Dude… please… leave the girls here with me, man. Pleeease..”

“Dan, you’re in no shape buddy. You’re passed out on the bathroom floor dude.”

“Naw man, I can come back from this. Trust me… I got this…” and with that I passed out cold. Dead to the world.

He sent the hottest girl in to say goodbye and (I quite possibly may have been dreaming this…) I seem to remember her leaning down and giving me a little goodbye peck on the cheek. If so, after all that, she’s a real trooper! Either way, I have no more memories until the next morning when I woke up, still on the bathroom floor, in a puddle of liquid. Oh fuck…

Don’t worry, though, it’s not what it sounds like! Apparently Joel had brought me a big glass of water before he took off (a very nice thought), but I ended up knocking it over and sleeping in it instead. I was very relieved when I realized that it was just water (I won’t lie, though… I had a little “Oh shit, not again!” moment when I opened my eyes).

Anyways, Joel came back the next morning to make sure that I had survived the night. He invited me to go to the beach with him but I politely declined. I was going to need a day on the couch and a few litres of water to recover from the previous day’s events. Spending the day watching girls in bikinis would have been nice, sure, but I was in no shape to be seen in public… not even close.

He left and I spent a long time just sitting on the couch in my underwear, going over the previous day’s events in my cloudy, pounding head. Memories were flowing back to me sporadically, making me very happy to have actually survived!

It was then that I noticed a bag of open chips on the floor. Yum! Hungover with disgusting cotton mouth I was happy to have a snack, especially since there really was no food in the fridge. I happily grabbed the bag and started to mindlessly mow down. I remember thinking that the chips seemed a bit soggy, which seemed weird to me, but I kept eating them anyways.

That’s when I reached in the bag and grabbed something that obviously wasn’t a chip… I pulled it out… hmm, it was a half eaten piece of pizza. I had absolutely no memory of ordering pizza but, after some digging around, I found a box with a few stray pieces on the kitchen table. I was happy to have leftover pizza, sure, but it caused me to realize just how much of the previous day I had absolutely no memory of… this worried me.

Over the next few days/weeks, with the help of my friends, I was able to reconstruct the majority of the day’s events… enough to write this story, anyways. All in all it was a great fuckin weekend! I got to play golf, learn to sew, turn wrenches, hit the bars, make a complete ass of myself but, best of all, I shattered my personal record for daily alcohol consumption!

I’ve set the bar high… almost unattainably high… and that (sadly) makes me very proud!

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