Monday, November 17, 2008

30 in 8 VII

This weekend was a typical Midwestern fall weekend. Jessie and I were blessed with three houseguests (none of them vagrants this time). John and Ari came up from Cincinnati, and Liz came over from Detroit.

John and Ari brought their dog Frannie, who, over the course of the weekend, fell in love with the idea of spraying liquid feces all over our hardwood floors. This may have been due to the fact that, over the course of the weekend, Frannie managed to take from the counter and kitchen table the following: a three-foot baguette, the remaining fourth of a box of Milk Bones, and nearly all of a package of dog jerky. Bear in mind that this is all we know about.

More important than incontinent canines was the fact that this weekend was the seventh installment of the class Midwestern drinking game, 30 in 8. In case you're unfamiliar with the lore or rules of 30 in 8, click here for a refreshing perspective. And for those interested in purchasing this year's 30 in 8 gear, a t-shirt and jersey are available at the GMYH CafePress store for a limited time only.

As with last year's competition, this year's abomination took place at Gregerson's apartment. The contestants were as follows, by number of 30 in 8s:

Ashcraft (7th 30 in 8) - The only 30 in 8 founder at this year's event, his history with 30 in 8 is spotty, ranging from the record of pieces of animal flesh eaten (8) to an unfortunate incident involving Hamburger Helper and my front steps.
Me (5th 30 in 8) - First of all, I'd like to thank God for inventing MGD 64. Second of all, wait, did you see the size of that chicken?
Christoff (3rd 30 in 8) - Still bitter from the last twenty-eight years.
Gregerson (2nd 30 in 8) - The self-proclaimed favorite after last year's 29. He had hoped to reach 30 this year.
Dan Weeser* (2nd 30 in 8) - One of the Brothers Weeser*, minus Greg and Tim, of course.
Tim Weeser* (2nd 30 in 8) - One of the Brothers Weeser*, minus Greg and Dan, of course. Last year he ended up face down on Gregerson's hardwood hallway.
Alex (1st 30 in 8) - The amiable husband of the Anonymous Wife of Alex.
Adam (1st 30 in 8) - Though I had only hung out with him once or twice before, I pegged him as the favorite based on his size, beard, and relative stoicism. He is Beowulf to alcohol's Grendel.
Jeremy (1st 30 in 8) - A guy I have met several times, each of which I barely remember. Saturday would be no different. I know he has brown hair and a fiancé.
Jason (1st 30 in 8) - A fellow Hoosier fan who recently got married.
The Most Interesting Man in the World (1st 30 in 8) - A Venezuelan known to karaoke. Watch out for the goosebumps, my friends.

To prevent the possibility (or even the potential appearance) of cheating, we made a new rule this year: No one is allowed to take their beer with them into the bathroom.

As with every year, my strategy is to drink a beer every 20 minutes, and then, if I'm within what I feel is striking distance of the lead, I make a literally blinding run to try to catch up. This year, the beers seemed to be going down easier than usual, so I picked up my pace slightly.

Gregerson's grill had been destroyed earlier this year by Zephyrus, so grilling was not an option at this 30 in 8 (not that we would have grilled anyway, as the temperature was barely over 3 degrees Centigrade). When we ordered three pizzas from the pizza place across the street, they asked, "Are you guys on the second floor across the street?" We were. Seconds later a well-thrown Molotov cocktail burned that pizza place to the ground.

At 5:41 p.m. Central Standard Time, something unheard of happened. Adam finished his 30th beer. In case you glossed over that, I will repeat: Adam finished 30 beers in 5 hours and 41 minutes.
What I am told I witnessed Saturday afternoon was nothing short of religious. It wasn't just the fact that he finished 30 beers in less than SIX hours. It was the minimal effort he put forth to do so. The word demi-god isn't thrown out nearly enough when it comes to drinking prowess, but perhaps it should be. I later learned that Adam's fiancé was worried that he was going to make enemies by dominating 30 in 8. Amanda, he made no enemies. What he did make was a group of fervent followers who will go forth and preach the Gospel of Adam until their untimely alcohol-related deaths. And he's a hell of a dancer.
The unfortunate side effect of this display of brute force and breakneck pace was that Gregerson threw down 28 in 6 hours while trying his damnedest to keep up with Adam. Much like our attempted 6 steins of beer in 5 hours at Oktoberfest, certain bad things seem to happen to Gregerson when he enters into drinking contests with men of superior tolerance. There are certain pressures that you and I can't comprehend. I'm confident that, had there been a German infirmary nearby, Gregerson may have been diagnosed with Class 2 Intoxication. And those fucking krauts probably would have tried to steal his watch again.

Around six of the clock, he was visibly teetering and speaking what we later figured out was a hybrid of Old English and Basque. The weird thing is that we could all understand exactly what he was saying. Realizing that he had made some gross miscalculations, he decided it was time to take a nap. On the walk from the living room down his hallway to his bedroom, there was a tremendously loud thud. We gathered around Gregerson as he flailed around on his back, unable to get up, much like a turtle lying upside-down, only bleeding from the head and ears. Ashcraft took his wallet. Christoff videotaped it. No one thought to help him up until someone noted that the best thing for a concussion is to sleep it off, so we dragged him to his bed.
Needless to say, Adam took control of the vaunted Yellow Jersey, as no one has been more entitled to it. I assume Adam is a pretty big Judge Dredd fan because he spent much of the next two hours standing over Gregerson's lifeless body and repeatedly yelling "I am the law" while mockingly draping the Yellow Jersey on Gregerson.
He also thought it wise to drink Rumpleminze, as the 30 beers had evidently failed to bring with them the optimal level of intoxication. The fact that he is holding both Rumpleminze and the Chuggler at the same time should concern all of us.
With Gregerson down for the count, I saw an opportunity to secure second place, and I did with a personal record of 29. I didn't even vomit. Thanks MGD 64! In the future I'm going to suggest that we have two weight classes, with 200 pounds as the cut-off between the two.

Things kind of got away from us as day turned into night. A lot of times when a group of people each drink over 20 beers, they tend to do things that they don't normally do: cursing, stabbing stacked empty pizza boxes with plastic knives to see if you can get all the way through to the Playboy underneath, meowing uncontrollably, and beating each other about the arms with lead pipes while the on-lookers circle around and sing "Alright, Alright (Here's My Fist Where's the Fight?)" by Sahara Hotnights. Seriously, I have no idea how I got this bruise on my arm, so that is the only plausible explanation.

For some reason, we decided that the night wouldn't be complete without playing some sort of rudimentary line-of-scrimmage game, whereby two of us would get down in three-point stances and try to knock each other over. I have no idea how this started or who thought it was a good idea, but thank you because it was.

But I don't want you to get the impression that all we were doing for eight hours involved physical feats of strength. We exercised the old noggins as well. Conversations over the course of the afternoon included: the pros and cons of Bob Rohrman's commercials vs. Max Madsen's commercials, the fact that I have never had a hangover after 30 in 8 because I usually puke my brains out then sleep for 12 hours, whether it was possible to stab a stack of three empty pizza boxes all the way through with a plastic knife and puncture the Playboy underneath, plans to start a Jewish bakery called Lemme Challah At Ya, the improper underuse of serial commas and the subtleties of irony.

Here are this year's final standings, as reported to me this afternoon by Gregerson:
1. Adam - 30+
2. Me - 29
3. Gregerson - 28
4. Jason - 26
5 (tie). Dan Weeser* - 24
5 (tie). Christoff - 24
5 (tie). The Most Interesting Man in the World - 24. He showed up at 3:41 and proceeded to bong all of his beers out of the Chuggler over the course of the next four hours and nineteen minutes. It was impressive. No wonder he has a sandwich named after him on every continent.
8. Alex - 22
9. Ashcraft - 21
10. Jeremy - 9. This doesn't seem right.
11. Tim Weeser* - 1.67 Sprites. Apparently having to work on Saturday night means that you're not allowed to try to drink 30 beers in 8 hours. I believe the word you're looking for is twat.

Meanwhile, at my place, Jessie was having a female-only version called 15 in 8, which the ladies started at 4 (instead of noon) and were doing it with wine instead of beer. I generally don't trust women, which is why I wasn't surprised to find out that they were not steadfastly attempting to drink 15 glasses of wine in 8 hours. Rather, they were just going to down as many bottles of wine among them in 4 hours. There were about 15 ladies there, and they took down about 25-30 bottles of wine in 4 hours (the exact count will never be known, due to the inconsistent disposing of empty bottles). And they were doing Rip It bombs. And then they were going to meet all the guys (who were still standing) at Rocks after 30 in 8. Nothing could have gone wrong with this plan.

No one at Gregersons seemed to think it was a bad idea to leave him there alone to die, so we all headed out to Rocks to meet the ladies. The Most Interesting Man in the World's strategy of bonging 24 beers in four hours must have backfired, as he made a beeline for the nearest cab as soon as we got outside. The rest of us somersaulted to Rocks, as far as I know.

When we got to Rocks, the shit show continued. I can't imagine what it must have looked like when 25 seemingly normal men and women stumbled into the bar at 9 that plastered. And I mean it. I literally can't imagine it because alcohol has taken that function from me. Before I had a chance to get my wits about me, Dan Weeser* and Christoff ordered us some Old Fashioneds, because whiskey and muddled fruit seemed like the best way to take the edge off after a case of beer. I had the hiccups on four different occasions, but the madness didn't end there. The Anonymous Wife of Alex puked on the table and under the table. Tracey tackled my wife. Melissa puked out of the window of her cab on the ride home. Tracey had to hold her head out of the window on her cab ride home to prevent herself from puking. We were a giant wreck. I have no idea how we weren't collectively kicked out.

Around 2, we decided to leave Rocks, which kind of sucks because I was hoping to get a full 15 hours of drinking in. John and I headed back to my apartment to walk our respective dogs, while Jessie, Ari, and Liz walked to LaBamba. I requested an order of super steak nachos, which I devoured upon their arrival. I'm pretty sure I got food poisoning because that's the only reason to explain why I was regurgitating (all of) the aforementioned nachos around 9:30 Sunday morning. (Ball, you know what I'm talking about.) It's now clear to me that I don't chew very thoroughly.

Most of Sunday afternoon was spent lying on my couch, weeping, while watching the Bears get manhandled and eating what I hope was shrimp, and trying to figure out whether the images in my brain of the past 24 hours were real or part of dreams. Despite what Alex told me yesterday, I'm still not convinced that I didn't break a pint glass over something at some point Saturday night, and I'll be damned if I didn't find $500 after jumping onto the nextdoor neighbors' roof while being chased by a lion.


RDC said...

the wives were there? Oh man.

And while you might never get a hangover after 30 in 8, I was hung over well into Monday night.

TRON said...

All MGD 64 users should be DQ'd, that is like the MLB going to aluminum bats.