Courtesy of Art Pleasant:
With a majority of my first week at work done, I have finally been able to pull myself away from Board of Directors meetings to share this gem of a story with all of you. Let me preface the story with a little about my ex-roommate, [Redacted] a.k.a. “Biggie” or “Smalls.” Biggie is about 6’5” – 340lbs and a horrendously lazy, high-school football washout. Biggie likes to eat, drink and drink some more – especially when none of the food or booze is his. Now, I like to keep a healthy stock of top-shelf liquor around just in case of a small world war and to avoid at all costs any journey into the dreaded Sconnie territory that has produced the likes of [Redacted] and many other degenerates.
Moving forward, I had a handle of Ketel One in our main room kegerator and came home from work one day to find about half of the bottle missing. I assumed this was PJ, which was fine because we had a pre-established agreement regarding booze and he can afford it. However, he said that the bottle looked more depleted than he remembered and that he had seen “Smalls” drinking shots from the bottle the night before. Now, take into account, that I already had to step up and give “Smalls” a “sit-down talk” about not stealing liquor, being less fat and overall just trying to keep himself under control. This was after Smalls had started drinking daily, alone in his room and unbeknownst to any of the other roommates. So, we would see Biggie come out of his room have a few drinks and proceed straight to blackout mode. Terrifying. But what was even more concerning, was we saw how much he was drinking outside of his room and knew that there was no way he could blackout off so little liquor – something was up.
Back to the light handle of Ketel One. I immediately assumed Biggie was up to his old tricks (thieving liquor) and proceeded to kick down his door (he was in class and no one was in the room at the time, but I like kicking down doors for effect) and look in his mini-fridge. Sure enough, I see two water bottles in the small freezer section filled to the brim with a “clear liquid.” I was upset and it was on.
Biggie got home and I immediately confronted him. He denied stealing any of my vodka, so I inquired with him about the water bottles in his fridge. He knew he was fucked. He said, “Oh so is that what you are all upset about?” – my response? “No [Biggie], I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.”
Flash forward two days ahead and we’re at Walgreens – it’s time to teach Biggie a lesson. I purchased two bottles equaling roughly 750ml of clear, tasteless, odorless laxative. In addition to this I also purchased some red food coloring, just in case. The next venue was the liquor store. The cheapest, shittiest most horrific red liquor that we could find was 100 proof Karkov Raspberry vodka, which just happened to be red. Upon arriving at home, I dumped out half of the handle of Karkov and filled the remainder of the bottle with clear laxative and some food coloring. I mixed the bottle up, and bam – looked like it was right off the shelf and there’s no way the big dumb animal was going to tell the difference.
The tricky part was getting Biggie to believe that someone had just “left their booze at the house” – so PJ steps in and says that his roommate just moved out and had left this Karkov. Biggie, considering that PJ and myself have some self-respect we have no interest in drinking Karkov, happily obliges and takes the bottle with an enormous shit-eating grin on his face – the game was on.
Biggie wanted to sit downstairs and play some cards as he started to HEAVILY lay into the bottle of Karkov. The card game began around 7:00pm – Biggie continued to drink hard through the game and past midnight with seemingly no problem. Then, all of the sudden, I saw a look of horror appear on his face as he urgently stated he had to run to the “little boys room.”
As we hear groaning from the bathroom, Biggie emerges and states that he “must have eaten something” that upset his stomach earlier and, of course, we all agreed. Now at this point I was rather drunk, so PJ and I offered to take Biggie to both White Castle and Hardee’s and let him unleash on the dollar menu – all on us of course. He ended up getting two Thickburgers with fries and a crave case from White Castle. I could have felt bad at this point, knowing completely the consequences of these actions – but I have little respect for idiotic behavior of this magnitude. Biggie finishes all the food before we return to the house and he is “READY TO FINISH THE BOTTLE!”
Roughly thirty minutes later, Biggie shit his pants. I’m not talking a little prairie dogging action; I’m talking a log of human feces came out of his asshole and was smushed all over his pants. He screamed with terror, “Oh my god, I think something is wrong with me!” as he ran down the hall to the bathroom. Shit streamed down both pant legs as he attempted to make it into the bathroom.
After about 45 minutes, PJ knocked on the bathroom door to check on the schmuck.
Biggie: “Call the doctor. I think I might have malaria. There’s shit everywhere and it won’t stop! I’m covered in shit what should I do?”
PJ: “Wow, man. I have no idea/ I guess just stay on the toilet and let your system clear out. I don’t know what to tell you.”
Biggie: “Good idea. I will try and wait it out.”
So the dumbass stayed on the toilet for two more hours wailing away in agony as his organs flushed out everything in his system – I think he was full-on screaming at one point.
Finally, we convince Biggie it’s time to go to bed because he has a paper and a test the next day. We get him in bed and within 20 minutes – he completely shit his bed. Glorious.
So, Biggie went back to the toilet where he proceeded to sleep – pants and boxers down to his ankles - from 2 am to 11am the next day. He had to skip his classes because he was shitting into the evening of the following day. He e-mailed his professors that he potentially had “malaria” and has had hemorrhaging diarrhea for the past 12 hours. Needless to say, I don’t believe the professors gave him any “shit” about the absences.
Moral of the story – don’t fuck with me when I haven’t been drinking yet.