By Craig Malisow
By Jeff Balke
By Angelica Leicht
By Jeff Balke
By Sean Pendergast
By Sean Pendergast
By Jeff Balke
By Ben DuBose
The Day After
Hangover 2 opens this weekend. In honor of the movie's release, writing on the Art Attack blog on May 11, John Nova Lomax told his worst hangover story and asked readers for theirs. Here's the response:
Puke party: For some stupid reason, my friends and I decided to make our own mixed drinks. Short of money, we used a pitcher of Kool-Aid from the fridge and added about eight different kinds of liquor from my parents' bar. Partying in my room, we became drunk as skunks!
One of my friends had to puke. Being terrified to let my parents find out, I told her to throw up out my window. Obviously, I wasn't thinking clearly. By 1 a.m., pretty much all of us had thrown up out my bedroom window.
Now, my bedroom was right over our garage, but my parents rarely ever actually parked their cars in there. So bright and early, we were awoken by a pounding on my door. Needless to say, we all had to wash my mom's car and clean the puke up. What made it worse was that we had only stopped drinking a few hours beforehand. The smell of puke just made some of us puke again. That was the worst feeling ever.
Epic journey: My worst hangover happened in Mexico. I'd gone to Monterrey to visit a friend, and my last night there he wanted to give me a good send-off. So we partied, and I ended up drinking a couple nice, tall glasses worth of vodka and tequila. Things went downhill from there.
Bright and early the next morning, I had to be woken up and driven to the bus station, lucky to arrive just in time to buy a ticket. After making my purchase, I puked into a trash can in front of the ticketing desk. When I looked up, I found the clerks chatting amiably, as if nothing had happened. I guess I'm not the first gringo estupido to puke in the international bus terminal.
The bus from Monterrey to Houston is a solid eight to ten hours, and riding it with the hangover of your life is like some kind of purgatory. Thankfully this bus was near-empty, and I managed to claim the entire back row and pass out.
En route, I was awoken by the Mexican Army, who had decided to pull our bus over for a random inspection. Standing in the Nuevo Laredo dessert with Mexican soldiers going through your bag is no fun, let me tell you. In any case, the real fun started when I finally made it to the border.
I can't blame the Border Patrol for picking me out for inspection. I'm sure I looked like I'd been dragged through a dog's ass. I can blame myself for not hiding those Cuban cigars better. I found myself at the little police station waiting area awaiting my fate. Turns out the punishment for the minor offense of less than a pound of cigars isn't that bad — a $50 fee.
Much worse was that I personally had to dispose of the contraband in question. In this case, I had to personally tear apart the cigars and flush them down the men's room toilet while a couple of cops watched. The smell of tobacco had me dry-heaving into the toilet for the next ten minutes as the cops looked on.
When I emerged my bus had taken off, so I had to convert whatever pesos were left in my pocket for fare and wait around in the McAllen Greyhound station a few hours for a ride back to Houston. I did end the day with a Devendra Banhart show at Walter's on Washington, so I guess I'd call it a wash.
So many shots: I got my worst hangover at the age of 16. I don't know what I was thinking, but I took ten or 12 shots of different kinds of liquor — if I recall correctly, Everclear, Hennessy and Soju. In the morning, I woke up on the floor, in the bathroom, pants down, with an excruciating headache. Apparently, I went to use the restroom, was too dizzy to stand, somehow peed on the floor and fell asleep. I woke up in the morning and probably vomited over a dozen times. Never again did I drink like that — ever!
Inmates with keys: I was turning thirtysomething and had the bright idea of going to a lounge around the corner to lift my spirits. I walked in, headed straight for the bar and said, "It's my birthday!" while showing my ID. Long story short, free drinks came all night long. I consumed a lethal combo of some cheap Chardonnay and Don Julio shots — and, oh, let us not forget the ceremonial Jägermeister bombs.
A friend who knew the owner had joined me. When the owner closed up, he saw that the party wasn't over for us, tossed us the keys and said, "See you tomorrow." Ugh, that is when it got out of control — bar-top dancing, drinking straight from the tap and DJ-ing like I was getting paid for it. But we were the only two left in the bar. I woke up half naked in the DJ booth the next morning, my head pounding, blind, deaf and dumb.