There is a tradition at Purdue University called "Breakfast Club". All the bars open at 7 am on Saturdays during football season so everyone can get rip roaring drunk before heading to the stadium to cheer on their beloved Boilermakers...OR...if you were like us, you would drink all morning, pass out BEFORE you made it to the stadium and then stumble out of the bushes and head home.
We were not your average day-time drinkers though...we didn't want to just do the status quo. We thought bigger, brighter, DRUNKER. We were overachievers in that way. Hell, if you're going to get up at 7 am on a Saturday to drink...why not take the edge off by drinking to the wee hours of Friday night, too??
I lived with my best friend, Sarah, in a basement apartment (Laverne and Shirley style...seriously...our view was feet, bushes and bumpers). Lucky for us, we had many neighbors and friends who also shared our affinity for consuming mass amounts of booze....and somehow, our fanciful cellar home became the drunk tank for friends, acquintances and an occasional stranger or two. We never locked our door, and it wasn't uncommon to walk out of your bedroom in the morning to see 3 strange men canoodling on the couches and floor. I never batted an eye...until Sarah took it the next level.
Apparently all available sleeping spots had been spoken for so Sarah suggested to our friend Mike that he go pass out next to me... in my bed. I wasn't there for this suggestion (obviously I was sawing logs in a room nearby), but according to witnesses, she said something like, "Oh just go crash next to Erin. She's been asleep for an hour already. She won't even know you're there."...and she was right. I didn't. (Don't worry, this isn't the beginning of an after-school special-esque report of date rape...)
I, being the most responsible train wreck of the group, always remembered to set my alarm for important events like class and scheduled all day drinking outings. It was 6 am and Tina Turner was asking what love had to do with it LOUDLY...I groaned, opening one eye and trying to remember what class I was late for. It was then that I realized I was not alone....mostly because my back was all wet. I assumed it was my boyfriend, and was shocked to see a boy that looked vaguely familiar drooling on my pillow. What the...did I? Did we?
I squinted, trying to get a better look at my sleeping companion, and I realized it was Mike.
He popped up looking startled.
"What the fuck are you doing in here and why the hell are you so sweaty?!" Before he could answer, I jumped out of bed and yelled over my shoulder, "If you're coming with us to Breakfast Club, you better get up. I gotta shower. You sweat like a beast! Sick!" I pounded on Sarah's door, yelled at the sleeping people in the living room and headed to the bathroom.
When I came out, almost everyone was ready...
except for Mike.
Dressing in bizarre costumes is part of the tradition of Breakfast Club. You can't just go in regular clothes...
and thus was the dilema.
I walked into Sarah's room, catching the tail-end of a heated debate. Sarah was shaking her head as she said, "Look, all I've got is this hot pink genie costume. Take it or leave it."
Mike begrudgingly accepted the costume, asking if he could change in Sarah's room. A few minutes later, we were on our way. It was sunny and 70....a perfect day for drinking heavily. We only lived a few blocks from the bars so we made our way on foot.
We had just ordered our first screwdriver when Sarah stopped mid-drink, staring at Mike's crotch. The genie costume was made of thin nylon and was basically see-through. "Hey! I have those boxers. Weird." Mike shrugged and tried to change the subject, but Sarah's wheels were turning. "They're pretty old...like from 8th grade. That's crazy that you have the same pair." Mike shrugged again and started talking about shots. "Wait...are those MY boxers??"
Just then, Sarah was tackled by someone we knew that was hugging her like she HADN'T just seen her earlier that day at 3 am. For now, the subject was closed.
Fast forward several hours...I'm in the kitchen cooking us a healthy dinner of Ramen and nachos when I hear a blood-curdling scream. I run to Sarah's room...and there she is...her arm outstretched, high in the air, holding the evidence on the end of a pencil. "Look! Just LOOK!!! I KNEW those were my boxers..."
There...dangling from the end of the pencil was a wet, crumpled up pair of men's underwear...more specifically...tightie whities. I leaned forward, taking a closer look. "What... the.. fuck is that?" Sarah held her hand over her nose and said, "What do you think?!" I scratched my head, befuddled.
Then... I got a whiff. "JESUS! Those smell like an old folks home! Where did they come from?!" She gagged, shook her head, and whispered, "Under. my. bed. Those boxers Mike was wearing WERE mine!!!! These must be his!!! He peed on his and needed new ones!!!!"
I was confused. "Wait...when did he pee?? Wait. No. Please tell me it isn't true." I made a mad dash for my bedroom.
For the first time since that morning I took stock of the disaster that was my bedroom...and there, under the covers...was a GIANT, disgusting pee stain!!!
More gagging...more yelling...basically, complete and utter bedlam ensued. Mike hadn't been sweaty...he'd been pissy....and I was too God DAMN drunk to notice.
Just thinking about it makes me need a beverage or two right now...while I ponder how I shall repay my dear old friend. What's that they say about revenge being a dish...or in this case, a bodily function...best served cold?? (Like old, cold pee...)