The Proudest Day of My Life
My new family at Subtle Dig has proposed a bonding experience. Put a bunch of writers in a hotel room, add in as much booze as everyone can drink, and see who comes out on top. A drinking contest.
I am known for a few things in life – that time I got a standing ovation singing Show Me How to Live at Karaoke, the time I hit a turn around 3-point shot at the buzzer to win the game – but more than anything else I am known for my drinking ability. Considering the unquantifiable amount of liquor I’ve consumed in my lifetime, some may say the fact I can count on one hand how many times I’ve puked from drinking (and they were ALL epic) and the fact that I’ve blacked out only once makes me a legend.
There are too many awesome drinking stories to recount in this post. Hundreds upon hundreds of stories involving so much badassery that my computer would explode should I attempt to type them all out. But there’s one time in particular that stands out in my mind where the cosmos aligned to reaffirm how truly Rockstar I am. A time so intense that when I think back on it, I need to punch holes in my walls just to calm myself down.
The story takes place approximately two years ago in the thick summer German heat. I was overseas at an outdoor concert called the Hurricane Festival where Radiohead and Foo Fighters were headlining. After sleeping in my car, I woke up in the afternoon barely able to breathe. I kicked open the door and rolled out onto the farmer’s field that was functioning as a parking lot. I took a clean shirt out of my suitcase in the trunk and went to hit the ice cold showers. After the shower I was back at my trunk deciding whether I wanted to drink gin or vodka. I grabbed a liter of juice and chugged half the bottle. Then took the liter of gin and dumped it into the juice until it was full again.
The sun continued to cook the earth as the afternoon progressed. I took off my brand new white shirt, the first time I’d ever worn it, and pulled the neck hole over my forehead, letting the shirt drape down across the back of my head, neck and shoulders. The decision to remove my shirt and place it over my head was threefold. First, it would block the sun. Second, my pasty Canadian torso would get a tan. Third, and most importantly, was vanity. I had been working out five days a week for the year leading up to Germany. I’d put on twenty pounds of muscle with minimal body fat, 165 to 185 (low reps, heaviest weights you can lift, do squats, deadlifts and bench, and eat a lot of protein – don’t let anybody tell you anything different), I was ripped.
As I made my way through tent village, Germans shouted out “Taliban” and “Pharaoh” among other words I could not understand aimed at my Arab inspired headgear. Others came up, unfortunately a majority of them dudes, and commented on my physique. From a historical perspective, Germans aren’t known to be the friendliest folks toward foreign cultures. It was apparent that my makeshift keffiyeh angered many. Though, it was hard to tell for sure because German people always sound angry.
I befriended some guys who were jumping off a steel structure onto tables until they smashed through them, mainly because one of them was dressed in a full body pink bunny costume. We drank for a few hours. I made several trips back to my car to refill on booze. By late afternoon the gin was gone, and I had started in on the vodka. I noticed that Germans drink in a very different way than Canadians. Whereas in my home country drinking is an endurance contest, in Germany the goal centers around getting as obliterated as possible in the shortest amount of time. The day wasn’t even half over, and passed out bodies littered the fields. Amateurs. That’s not a gentleman’s drunk.
When the sun started to drift toward the horizon, I made my way to the actual grounds. There was a check point leading into the stage area that prevented anyone from bringing in booze. I chugged the last of my vodka before entering, which brought my total intake to about 1.5 liters of hard alcohol. Upon entering the grounds I was met by a group of drunk guys who were particularly unfond of my shirt-on-head idea. One of them decided to rip it off my head and run away. I gave chase. Figuring it was a good natured joke, I wasn’t too invested in catching the guy. Just prior to being in arm’s distance, the guy pivoted sideways and tossed my shirt at a steel drum functioning as a garbage can. I stopped and glared at him with disgust. The wind had caught the shirt causing it to miss the barrel and fall to the ground against it, which made me a little less angry – that was, until I picked it up and saw a massive mustard stain across the back of it. I’m not a man who has a lot of money to burn. Moreover, I don’t get many new clothes so when I realized my shirt was ruined I became enraged. The guy must have noticed because he stood frozen in his tracks.
I sprinted toward him. When I was two steps away, he put his hands up to cover his face, likely figuring I was going to toss a haymaker his way. Instead, I ducked down and plowed a shoulder right into his mid-section in such a fashion that would make Bill Goldberg proud. I had so much momentum from the adrenaline rush that as we fell to the ground I actually slid up over him. I cannot remember if it was intentional, mere instinct or an accident but as I fell over top of him, I drove an elbow right across his chin. His head snapped sideways. I propped myself up on my knees to throw a punch but it was clear he was out cold. I didn’t stick around to find out for how long since his group of friends were yelling and coming over. It seemed to me they were cheering, but I was outnumbered, drunk and in no rush to find out. I made the manly decision to run. I didn’t look back until I was a good fifty yards away. His friends were crowded around him laughing. I couldn’t see if he was moving yet.
An opening act for the Foo Fighters turned out to be mediocre on stage. I decided to use the opportunity to make the twenty minute round trip to my car where I could refuel on booze instead of spending five dollars per beer in the gated area. On my walk to the exit point, I noticed a large group of people jumping and shouting in a circle. I investigated and discovered the commotion was over a large, three hundred pound-ish man who was about to take a breathalyzer test. The concert had girls walking around in uniforms with white sashes over top. The sashes, I was told, advertised breathalyzer tests. The gimmick was you paid two euros to have a reading done. After the reading you were given a card to record your blood alcohol content. If you paid for three more readings during the night, the final one was free.
The fat drunk man could hardly stand straight to do the test. His friends spoke English and explained that he was tanked after chugging multiple beers. They said he was going to break the record. The big man inhaled a huge breath and blew into the machine. The crowd constricted around the breathalyzer in anticipation of the result. A few seconds later the reading popped up “0.095.” The friends cheered and high-fived, patting the guy on the back.
What the fuck? That’s it?
I stood there shocked and confused. It took me a few beats to process the situation. When I regained my ability to speak, I asked around to confirm what I had seen. I inquired about the drinking and driving limit in Germany, “0.05” was the response. I did my best to verify that the metric used for BAC in Germany was the same as the one in Canada. The Germans claimed it was.
“Well, what the fuck then,” I said, still in disbelief, pulling a two dollar coin from my pocket. “Let me give that breathalyzer a shot. Show you fools how we do it in Canada.” I became as animated as possible, waving my hands in the air to bring attention to myself. I talked smack to the fat man until people gathered back around. I handed the coin to the breathalyzer girl who was laughing at my theatrics. I knew, on account of all the alcohol I drank, I was at least going to double the last guy’s reading.
I kept rousing the crowd until people became impatient. When suspense was heightened to its maximum potential, I took a deep breath and blew. Everyone went silent. The breathalyzer girl pulled her machine close and awaited the reading. The big man swayed as he looked over her shoulder. I couldn’t see the reading because I was standing opposite the girl. Her jaw dropped. I watched the color drain from her face. The fat guy looked at the reading and slapped a palm against his forehead, stumbling back a few steps.
The breathalyzer girl tilted the reading toward my eager, awaiting eyes, “0.315” ZERO POINT THREE ONE FIVE. “Awww yeah motherfuckers,” I threw my hands in the air. Word started to spread. Before I could scream out more self-congratulatory praise, a few Germans hoisted me on their shoulders. People from the surrounding area started coming over to see what the fuss was about. Who was this pale, Canadian wearing a mustard-stained shirt on his head and why was he so popular?
After dozens of high-fives, I finally found myself back on solid ground. Right away the breathalyzer girl ran up to me. In her broken English she said “go. doctor,” and pointed to the big white tent not too far away with a large red cross symbol on top of it.
I laughed and waved her off. “If I’m going anywhere, it’s to get more booze.”
She grabbed my arm in a panicked grasp, “No, please go. you must. you die.”
I assured her it was fine. A few other sober individuals with better English tried to convince me to go too. The poor breathalyzer girl looked distraught. It didn’t help things that I made her fill out the card with my epic, legendary, infinitely awesome reading on it. After receiving my card, a young guy asked to have his picture taken with me holding it up. As soon as the first picture was snapped, a new person asked. Before long a lineup formed. For the next ten minutes I was, in my mind, the greatest individual to ever walk on this earth.
Once the crowd dispersed, I continued my journey to the car to fill up on booze. I finished the second liter of vodka that night. Then I proceeded to drink many more beers and, after the Foo Fighters performed, many more vodka-red bulls at the afterhours tent as I danced until the place shut down at eight in the morning at which point I dragged myself, covered head to toe in dirt, back to the showers before passing out in my car. I never did bother to take another reading that night. There was no way to recreate the moment from earlier on. Though , it would have been nice to see if I could have upped my personal record.
Tomorrow, I’m set to descend on Washington DC to reclaim my previous glory of Drinking Champion of the World. I face some stiff competition among the stable of SubtleDig writers. Already some are starting to back out. Pulling out endless excuses from their bag of wuss, as they quake in their wuss shoes at the thought of facing a true professional.
I feel like I’ve been training for this moment for my whole life. At twenty-eight years old, after twenty years of heavy drinking, I’m ready to step into the ring. A boozer in his prime; battle-hardened, stone liver ready for WAR. Will I meet my match? Will Toilet Lawyer jiu jitsu me into submission? Will TrembletheDevil bust out some guerrilla warfare for the victory? Will Lifeat160‘s borderline alcoholism prevail, boosting his ego to an arrogance previously thought impossible? History says otherwise, but I wont underestimate the challenge. There are certain moments in life where one simple outcome can change a person’s trajectory forever. This Saturday may very well be one of those moments. Perhaps it’s not hyperbolic to think the fate of the universe rests in my hands. Humanity, I will not fail you.
“That’s not a gentleman’s drunk.” Awesome.
Great story dude. Good luck down in DC, and you’d better win. Win for Calgary, win for Canada!
@Carrymehome
I’ll do my best. How do I translate Iggy to Crosby into drinking terms?
@Bryan
Speak of fire, I should set the hotel room curtains on fire in celebration.
This post is pure fire! Win win win
And yet, it only took me a week to break you. You’re lucky I won’t be there, swilling whiskey, watching war movies at full volume, screaming at the tv and stabbing the walls.
Of course, that week broke me as well. So it’s good I won’t be there.
@Ben
If week one was breaking me — and it did, then how the hell do we classify the next three weeks? Did they even happen? Was it really just one week and I imagined the next three in alcohol induced coma? All I know is there are few things scarier than a whiskey drunk Corman stabbing knife holes in your walls while reenacting the battle cries from the opening scene to Saving Private Ryan. Jeez, leave a guy alone for three hours…
See, why the hell don’t you write more of this kind of stuff? Cartoons are only funny when they involve Ballsack and an ensuing mental breakdown. More Drunk Griffin. We want to live vicariously through you!
@Samr
I just write whatever my soul tells me to write. Although you do have a point about Drunk Griffin. I need to embrace that guy more. So many shirtless moments, so few time to write about them. If he doesn’t kill me in DC, there will be more stories. Hopefully some good ones from the competition.
@Qeen-bee
Dude, that Mimosa was like 7% alcohol. It gave me hot flashes. And don’t worry, I shaved my head for the trip. Nobody will have to hold my hair back. If I need some encouragement, I’ll call you around midnight. If I need you to trash talk me and be extremely mean, I’ll call you around 5am when you’re tossing gutter balls at Wii bowling and looking for a fight.
If you’re all that, then why were you giggling and saying you were tipsy after our brunch of Waffles with a Brandied Peach Sauce, washed down with one measly Mimosa? As you toddled off to the boy’s room to splash water on your face, you warned me not to order you another or I might be required to hold your hair while you vomited.
Have fun in DC. I hope they’re serving Boone’s mixed with Sprite.
If you need me, I’ll be at the bottom of a bottle of Absolut, although I’m always available by text or internet. I hear I’m particularily charming and insightful then.
Kisses.
I was laughing at the shirtless t-shirt-hat wearing tool until you posted that number. Dear god man. The liver association could haul you in front of the UN genocide committee for that shit. I guess I have to respect you at least a little bit now.
And good luck with the meeting. I don’t have much exposure to the subtledig network, but if Lifeat160 gets out without a physical altercation either he is a poser or the rest of you are.
@C.
I bet I would have had a higher reading if I had been breathalyzed later that same evening. And depending on how you define physical altercation, I think we’ve lived up to your expectations.
Sheesh. You have one little non-nurturing moment and nobody will let you live it down.
Be safe and see you in rehab.
Great story dude.
And goodluck in D.C. This weekend man.
Give 160 hell
@Adoptable
Gave him all the hell I could, in the form of about 52oz of gin — and that was just from the Saturday night. God, I’d hate to know what the total amount for the weekend was.
@Anonymous
The Hurricane Festival was a big part of the reason I went there. I had a chance to go, and finding out that was playing sealed the deal.
Did you go to Germany only to attend the Hurricane Festival?
Nice piece Griffin! Good luck in DC! And you know you only get the good stories out of me after some wine or tequilla and/or during one of your writer’s block period. You’re on fire lately though!!!
@Jennifer
Yes! Now I have a reason not to write for a while.
Griffin,
Jennifer. Just sayin’. Not going to say another word.
Now to the post; I’ll be candid, I thought, fuck…another “Sushi” B.A.C. bullshit story. However, the more I read, the more I liked it. Most importantly, I believed it. Better yet, I felt like I was there as well.
Here’s what is bad-ass, and you should be proud of this; I came to your blog for one topic, yet and I’m hooked on most of your other divergent stories. Hell, I am not sure I even give a damn about the tour now.
Good stuff…real quality.
@Aint
Awesome. Glad you liked this one. I’m basically doing whatever I feel like these days. Sometimes it works, sometimes not.
@Jennifer
I will finish the tour updates for sure. There are some solid stories in there.
Ain’t: Just saying what???? Ok, I agree w/ Ain’t on the “other divergent” posts lately, but I did enjoy the tour posts as well. Would have liked to see them come full circle.
Ask me some time about acute pancreatitis. I was still pretty cool lying in the ER with an IV running when the Red Cross guy showed up, pulled a bag of blood out of his Thermos box and started saying my name, DOB, blood group and all that. When he pulled out a second bag and did the same thing, again with my info, I started paying attention.
What sucked most was the look on my wife’s face as the chief of medicine came over to tell us there was a 20% chance I’d be dead inside 48 hours. My wife was holding our four-month-old daughter when she got the news that after only eight months she might be a 30-year-old widow.
I could pour down two whole bottles of vodka and you’d never even know. I wish I’d never learned to drink so much. Didn’t even get buzzed at the end, just drank to drink because it was there (because I kept buying bottles). Stop while you can.
@ReallyEvilCanine
Jesus dude, that’s crazy that you’d be downing two bottles of vodka when you have a 4 month old daughter. I hope that your brush with death has sobered you up for good. I have another article called “Addiction” that sums up a few of my feelings on booze. If I ever get to the point where I need a drink every day, or I start drinking alone for the sake of it, I’ll stop. For some reason I have an insane alcohol tolerance. I’ll probably be dead by 35 due to some repercussions from abuse, but hey…
It’s unfortunate you had to hit rock bottom before sobering up. But stay that way. Starting a family is so much more important, and fulfilling, than drinking to oblivion.
Thanks for the comment. It’s an important lesson.
Hi Griffin
Nice reading, and good to know you are fine after this binge…
I am now 55, and have been a drinker for about 15 years, with the occasional serious (morning-till-midnight) drinking bouts, so far without any health problems.
And then, a couple of months back, I had a blackout in the morning after a night of light drinking. I was taken to the ER immediately. While in the intensive care, I had three seizures in the course of an hour (I have no history of epilepsy).
Subsequently all my tests have come out as normal, and I can only trace this episode to my heavy (and accumulated) alcohol consumption. I have since cut down drastically, and am saner and wiser now.
Please take care…!
n.h.
@Norbet
That’s an honest response. And a true testament to treating the drug with respect. If you’re having seizures without any predefined condition, then those seizures are potentially correlated to your alcohol consumption. And there’s a good chance that causation is in effect. Seizures are known to be a repercussion of alcohol, usually in the higher quantities, but good for you for cutting it out. If you haven’t had a seizure since, there’s a good chance you’ve eliminated not only an unpleasant consequence but a life-threatening illness.
You misunderstand.
> that’s crazy that you’d be downing two bottles of vodka
> when you have a 4 month old daughter.
I *could* have. I wasn’t dropping 2 with the baby but I could have done and no one would have noticed.
> If I ever get to the point where I need a drink
> every day, or I start drinking alone for the
> sake of it, I’ll stop.
Famous last words. Do you really think I set out on a suicide mission? YOU are the one who brought up the subject, not me.
> For some reason I have an insane alcohol tolerance.
Ditto.
> It’s unfortunate you had to hit rock bottom
I didn’t even come CLOSE to fucking “rock bottom”. My wife is here, my daughter is here, I still have my job, my house, my toys. I lost a month in a hospital but I have health insurance you can only dream of.
>Thanks for the comment. It’s an important lesson.
With this nick I don’t tend to be the most helpful guy out there but I recognised something and if I can stop one dumbass from doing what I did… You’re the one who’s already mentioned drinking yourself to death. I know all about addiction (though I wasn’t addicted to alcohol) — you sit there thinking, “will this be the one that kills me?” AS YOU DO IT.
Stop now, if and while you still can. Are you even getting off before you hit 0.2%? Or does it just help you get to sleep quicker?
That’s what I thought. Stop.
@ReallyEvilCanine
Whoa, totally misinterpreted your first comment. My bad. Glad your life is on track. I appreciate the advice.
That was awesome! When first came across the breathalizer scence I thought “Oh please no. Not a copy of Tucker’s Sushi Pants Story.” But it was much much better. I’m worried about your liver though.
Let us know how it goes.
@Molestor
I’m pretty sure everybody that knows me, including myself, is worried about my liver. If you want an idea of how the competition went (I’m sure I’ll write something up soon) check out this link: http://lifeat160.com/2010/04/the-champion/
But yeah, this was no attempt to repeat Tucker’s breathalyzer story, which is one of the best.
I’m not really sure when your blog turned into an AA meeting, but for me it’s quite tiresome. Tales of woe and life gone wrong, all due to the evils of liquor. Boo fucking hoo.
P.S. Chris doesn’t need saving. He’s just far too respectful to tell you to shove your sanctimonious drivel up your sober asses. (sorry for sounding so mean, but Mommy has a wicked hangover)
P.P.S.S. Hey Chris, when are we doing cocktails? We have some catching up to do.
@Qeen-Bee
Yeah mama, the internet is a strange place full of extremes. Super sensitive people, vicious haterz but in between there are a few good souls.
We are overdue for a drink. I’ll head down your way one of these days and update you on my most recent awesomeness.
Wait, is the BAC reading the same in America as Germany and Canada?? I can’t believe people would be impressed with a .095 reading from the fat guy…
Hilarious story. There is no way I could function with a BAC that high, let alone remember anything.
@GHM
Yup, it’s the same measurement all over. I was shocked about the .095 thing too. Still don’t really understand it. Most people I know could hit that reading with Friday lunch beers.
Freebird sucks!
@Jace
You little shit!