And I bet no one's confused why puking occurs. Think back to that first week of college. What was the diagnosis on that kid who had to be hospitalized after his very first party? Yes, alcohol poisoning. Why? Because basically alcohol is poison, and this Askville page actually does a decent job of explaining that. (What I love about that link, however, is not the answer, but the moronic questioner who is only interested in the biochemical reasons for puking alcohol when not mixing drinks because puking from mixing needs no biochemical explanation because it's "logical" -- y'know, the way humans always logically puke if they drink both Coke and Pepsi.)
Nick: The Puker
My buddy Nick is from England, and English people, much like normal Americans, also have stomachs. I'd like to tell you a humiliating story about how Nick puked in a public place that night and destroyed the restroom of a swank restaurant, but I can't. We didn't go to a swank restaurant. We went to that Irish pub, CJ Hooligan's, and after three more beers and three more bowls of potato salad, Nick puked up his British guts, consistent with England's tradition of messing with the Irish. Some say this story isn't true. (Nick.) Some say it was someone else who created an awful mess for those CJ Hooligan's workers he seemed to care about so dearly only moments earlier to clean up. But, y'know, sometimes booze can affect your memory too.
The Dude Who Divulges Things That Can't Be Taken Back
Yes, alcohol can make you a spastic, belligerent, puking person who sadly tries to become someone else, but it does more good stuff too! Y'see, alcohol affects your cerebral cortex, where all sorts of good stuff happens. And when you throw some alcohol in there, you can become more talkative, but with less judgment. Isn't that an awesome combination? It's like a magic elixir that shrinks your penis while making your underwear invisible. And when that happens you get the guy who says stuff he can't take back.
Brian: The Divulger
So I'd never met Brian before that night, but he came along to pour drinks (as he had been trained by one of the world's top 10 flair bartenders when he used to work at T.G.I. Friday's) and he seemed like a lovely chap. We had no past and I feared no awkward confessions from his drunken state, but after several hours and many alcoholic beverages, we noticed this gentle giant sobbing silently in the alley of CJ Hooligan's. We all turned to look up at our sad Hagridian friend. (Except for Alli, who was pretending the alleyway was a church aisle, shouting "I do. I do marry you, Devon Sawa!!!")
"Why are you crying?" I asked Brian, and he stopped a minute to wring out his beard, which had been collection his tears like a bath sponge left in a leaking shower.
"I have a confession to make," he said. "I didn't just mix the drinks, I ... I ... did stuff to them."
"What kind of stuff?" Brendan asked, before continuing, "And by the way, you could just tell those potato skins were made by employees who haven't been treated fairly, couldn't you?"
"Well, Brendan," Brian said, "I laced your drinks with like a gazillion uppers. It's why you've been such an aggressive prick all night."
Brendan was shocked, but the shock soon turned to intense pain after transforming his fist into a bloody stump on the CJ Hooligan's alley wall.
"And you, Alli. I'm sorry, but I laced your drink with both MDMA and LSD, just about all the letters, basically."
"Thank you, Brian," Alli squealed. "Thank you for making me Mrs. Devon Sawa!"
"What did you put in my drink?" Nick asked, his face as green as a 30-something Englishman who had just puked a lot. (Sorry, I wrote that metaphor while I was still drunk.)
"Nothing," Brian said, "but I did mix it with a syringe I found in medical waste garbage."
"What about me, Brian?" I asked. "Did you put something in my drink to make me clumsy?"
"No, I couldn't do that to you, Gladstone. You're a hero. You're just a huge spazz."
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