Oh Vinny, what you did man?

So this past weekend, my friend Vince (who is also my manager at work and lives in my basement, making me his landlord) had his birthday. So our friend, Paul, and myself took it upon ourselves to celebrate this wonderous 24th year of Vince's life.

Vince is a sober dude.

He doesn't drink at all.

Up until this weekend, he could count all the alcoholic beverages he has had in his life, on one hand.

So what do Paul and I do? Well, we decided to take him to a strip-club in the heart of Whalley (T-Bars to be exact)

So we enter, the first dancer is on stage, we find a table close to the bar and get the drinks flowing.

About an hour passes, and Vince's eyes are glazed. We ask him if he's drunk, to which he replies "no"
so we ask him if he's buzzing and he says "little bit, little bit"

six shots later we expected him to be passed out, but he was wide awake and visibly drunk (although still refusing to admit it)

Paul and I then took this moment to acquire the services of a private dancer for Vince. Her name was Crystal and she was walking around in white lingerie (quite "riskay" considering it is the middle of freakin winter).

Negotiating her price, we came down to $40 for a three-song dance for vinny, or $60 for a three-song dance for vinny-mac WITH TOUCHING.

we paid her $80 american..... he was gone for nearly an hour. what happened during that hour behind that closed door is still a mystery to paul and myself.

when vince finally reappeared, he was visibly drunk, stumbling everywhere, and miraculously managed to make it back to the table without falling. oddly though, he walked right by our table and made a b-line to the ATM machine, with crystal right behind him.

he took out a questionable amount of money (we couldn't tell how much, we were pretty far away in the dim lit establishment) and handed it to crystal, who then grabbed his hand and led him back into the VIP room. needless to say, it was quite a humorous site.

finally, 20 minutes later, vince emerged and sat back with us. repeatedly thanking us for this great time he was having. so to celebrate this moment, we bought him 4 more drinks (one shot of black zambucka, two shots of whiskey, and a bottle of kokanee as a chaser)

paul emphasized the fact of "drinking slow" to vince, but before he could comprehend what paul was saying, vinny had already downed all three shots in less than 20 seconds.

HE WAS HAMMERED

the beer he used as the chaser was mostly poured on his face and shirt, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get the bottle to pour in his mouth.

but of course, like any drunken idiot, "he was fine" just buzzing "a little bit"

for the next few moments, paul and i were distracted by an incident onstage. when we turned our heads back towards vince, he was vomiting on himself.

so i carried him out the back door and paul went to the coatcheck to get our jackets and now the good part begins.

i took on the part of being the one to drive him home.
having thought most of the puking was now done with, i carried ol' vinny to my truck (hank) draped his seat with an old towel, rolled down the windows and blasted the heat.

now having chauffered many drunks home in my time, i've learned the secret to prevent them from puking in your vehicle is to have a fast paced conversation. keep firing questions that the drunken idiot has to think about to answer, hence his brain is preoccupied with replies to the questions rather than the thought of vomiting in the car of your good friend who offered you a ride home.

we were a block away from home.

one block.

not even 200 metres.

and vince fell silent.

I looked to my right and saw vinny puking over himself again, INSIDE MY CAR!

I was like, "dude, to your right! the window's open!"
he shifted to the right, the top part of his head was out the window, but his mouth was still on the inside.

he proceded to vomit on the door (inside and out) as well as into the armrest, the side of the seat, and the compartment on the lower part of the door (which housed a cd case, now covered in previously digested fettucini alfredo, apparently his dinner of choice before the club)

at this point, i was flabbergasted. what was i to do. WAIT. i know, open the door. "open the door!" i yelled to vince, but the hooligander was lost with his hands, he could not find the handle, and i saw another heave coming on.

so i did what any new car owner would do, reached across and tried to open the door myself.

bad idea

bad
bad
bad idea.

he proceeded to upchuck all over my arm, the drinks, the pasta, everything.
and then he leaned forward with his mouth aiming for my vents!

all car drivers will know, that if something get's into your vents, it's virtually impossible to get out and hence the stink from this vomit would linger in hank for who knows when.

So i cupped my puke covered hand, put it in front of the vent, and vince then gushed out another stream, right into the palm of my hand, which deflected the puke right out the window. i didn't really mean for it to happen, i just wanted to cover the vent, but i guess god decided the punishment was enough up to that point.

We then finally arrived home, carried Vince back to his suite, made him strip down, threw his puke-stained clothes in his bathtub and sent him to bed. ( i checked up on him three more times throughout the night, he was still alive... but covered in more puke during his sleep) needless to say he was extremely hungover the next day.

after about 90 minutes at washworld during the wee hours of the morning with the temperature at -8C, i shampooed and vaccuumed the interior 4 times over and gave hank a good wash, making it to bed by 4:30am.

suffice to say, paul and i brought it upon ourselves, but this will be a memory for the ages.

my birthday party is this upcoming saturday night, guess who i'm going to get to drive me home?