If you've been wondering where I've been lately, brace yourself. Like right now. Ready? Bam: I've been showering vomit and urine off of my torso and head. Seriously. So that's what you call not burrying the lead. And this is the rest of the story: I left Savannah (where I was doing some work for an Open House at Frogtown) late Friday night and headed back to Charleston so that I could get up early Saturday morning to make a trek up to Lake Lure (which just so happens to be where my all-time favorite movie was filmed) for a bachelor party for that Bri guy I made a reference to after my last bachelor party (which was shockingly not nearly as humiliating for me as this more recent one). So I left Saturday morning-ish and made the 4-hour drive up to the mountains of North Carolina. I arrived at a house that's aptly named Enchanted Cottage, for it was most certainly enchanted. Most of the guys (there were 12 of us total) were out playing golf. The few who weren't were watching Brady Quinn's ego shrink and fishing illegally. It's probably safe to say that both groups were drinking. Around 4pm or so the golfers got back (Bri-rohnie included), and I introduced my charming self to the folks I'd yet to meet. Most of the guys were Tarheels, and the majority of those I didn't know from Adam. They all seemed like "good guys", as anyone who's ever hung around a fraternity house might say. Intelligent and interested in Bri-doggie's other (non-Heel) friends, which is all anyone can really ask. Top shelf gents. So we all drank some more Natty Light and talked about how awesome we are. And, of course, we spoke respectfully of women. I think Bri-bitchy and his douchebag of a brother, let's call him Maction, pattied up some burgers, and I'm almost certain it was those two who grilled the burgers to a perfect mediocre. Anywho, we all dined on the mediocrity and drank more Natty Light (which, in another strange turn of events, I actually purchased).

The night was glorious: cool, clear and completely devoid of phone calls, car rides and decisions. The best kind of night. Just some guys talking about Mitt Romney and Pink Socks. Always in the same sentence. At some point in the night, we shotgunned some Natty Light in honor of the bachelor . . . not the Officer and a Gentleman, but Bri-sandwich. We then shotgunned another Natty Light. Shortly after that, I caught Bri-biscuitface drinking with his right hand, which as you know is a big no-no in some circles. Our circle being one of them. Truth be told, I just joined the game that day. It's called "Buffalo" and you are always playing it. The only way out is to not finish whatever you're drinking (with your right hand) when some other player calls "Buffalo". In other words, you never drink alcohol with your right hand. The game is played at all times. Even right now. Fortunately, my parents aren't players, so I can drink my Snatty with my dominant hand while I write about my misery in their home. Yes, I'm back in my parents' house for a few days, which has turned out to be about a few days too long. Nothing to do with my parents at all; this town is just pretty boring. Not to mention, when I've tried to go to the library to get work done, I've had to contend with a bunch of idiots playing video games and making explosion noises with their mouths. I can only imagine it's their careers being shot out of the sky. Anyway, I digress. Oh, but you know what I don't do? I don't mistake Bri-town's friends for toilets. Okay, so after I caught Bri-son Burger drinking a tall, fresh bourbon drink with his right hand, I yelled "Buffalo". It was a low blow. But it just goes to show that you should always have a Natty Light in your hand. Bri-daddy chugged the drink and then went off to his room to throw up and pass out. Or read. I can't remember exactly. Soon after the man of the hour bid us adieu, I retired to a trundle bed in the downstairs hostel; there were about six beds down there. I chose the trundle because I figured I'd arrived later than everyone else and more than likely all of the real beds were spoken for (some people had been there since Thursday). I removed my shoes and socks and was soon dreaming about rainbows and lollipops.

But then I felt a kick. And then another kick. And then I heard a voice telling me to get up. "Wake up", it said. "Wake up, man." I cracked opened my eyes and was understandably a bit groggy. But not so groggy that I didn't realize my bed was soaking wet. I remember my arm just rubbing the sheet in confusion. I was still groggy. And then I saw the source of the voice; he was standing over me saying something about how he was sorry. I first assumed that I had wet myself, which I don't think I've ever done. I blamed it on the mediocre burgers. But then I realized my pants weren't really wet - at least not anywhere near my crotch or lower leg area. I was clearly in something that was not mine. That's when I really woke up.

I stood up and looked down at the trundle bed, and saw not only a soiled bed, but a fair amount of upchuck, as well. I then noticed that the shirt I wore to bed was also completely soiled. The side of my jeans were, too. And I think my hair had some mediocre burger in it. About that time, the guy who hosed me down hours earlier said to me, "You might wanna take a shower, bud." Truer words have never been spoken. Bri-bopper's friend, whom I had met approximately 12 hours earlier, had apparently passed out in the bed above me, and relieved himself (both orally and penisly) on me while passed out. Somehow I didn't even wake up until the next morning. Bri-bastard's friend had to catch a flight, so he got up early and that's when he first noticed his gift on me. I can only assume he promptly woke me up, though I imagine he did think to himself for a second or two, "Man, I'll be in New England before this guy ever realizes what happened." Then he probably thought, "Fuck, we'll both be at the wedding in two weeks." He did the right thing by waking me up. And he apologized. I accepted it. Truth is, as disgusting as it was (and remains to be), it was kind of funny. I can appreciate the humor in it, even though one of my favorite tshirts is ruined. Bri-scrotum's friend washed my clothes while I showered early that morning, a true "good-guy" move. I washed them again when I came back from Lake Lure, but the shirt didn't really make it; there's a skunk-like stripe down the back of it. But it probably serves me right, as it was a blasphemous tshirt I picked up at a Bible-belt thrift store. Blasphemous only in that I was wearing it. Anyway, we can all laugh about it now. And hope that it never happens again. I am most definitely looking forward to Bri-soupman's wedding; I will not be sleeping on any trundles there. And I will be upperdecking the bathroom at the reception.