Top 5 Hangovers

5. Penn State vs. Wisconsin, 2008: The fifth-worst hangover I've experienced occurred a few Sundays ago, as a result of the previous night's festivities. I was out early on Saturday at a Penn State gathering for the game vs Wisconsin. I got it in my head early on that I wouldn't duplicate the same drink, nor the same type of alcohol, for the rest of the night. Upon proclaiming this, and ordering shots of tequila after I'd already had beer, wine, gin, scotch, and vodka, my friend Kellen warned me I'd "hate myself tomorrow." Boy was he right. Everyone else seemed to have the good sense to call it a night around 11pm, after a good five hours of hard drinking. Not me. I decided it'd be a good idea to stumble across town and go on a Jaeger and Irish car bomb binge until the bar closed at 4am. Next I remembered, I was suffering in bed at 9 o'clock the following morning. The long and short of it is a Sunday defined by my matching vomiting with shitting, four apiece. The cherry on top came when simply brushing my teeth culminated in the fourth and final bout of regurgitation. Good times.

4. New Year's Eve, 1999: Next is the millennium New Year's Eve party I had at the beach house eight years ago. This was the first of many immortal shindigs to go down in south Jersey. We were still young; my dark secret is that I didn't know how to hold my liquor back then. We were only a few months removed from high school and the party had been built up so much. Everything was going without a hitch until the ball dropped. I don't recall much, but I can only assume that so much alcohol was consumed in the first twenty minutes of the new millennium that disaster ensued. What I do know is that I was vomiting face-down in the sand by 12:30. My girlfriend at the time ended up having to take care of me for most of the night as I writhed in pain screaming "What's happening to me?!?" Unlike the previous entry on this list I was not a seasoned veteran. As such, this was not a good time.

3. Prelude to Raz's 40s oz Party, 2007: I don't even recall what went down the night prior to this. What makes it worthy of this list is the sheer suffering that took place the following day, also the day of my friend Raz's annual 40-ounce birthday extravaganza. All I know is I entered the previous night planning to take it easy in preparation for the following day's debauchery. Clearly, I should have know better than to think I could control myself. At this time, I still took pride in the ability to abstain from getting sick the next day as a result of abusive drinking. Sure, it happens to us all from time to time, but up to this point the vast majority of my transgressions occurred near the point of so-called foul and not the next day. This occasion was different. I purged a record eight times the following afternoon, the last couple of which were pure blood. I was in such poor shape that, in order to buy time, I told my roommate I couldn't make the trip down to Philly. This infuriated him, as we'd had these plans weeks in advance. Eventually, I summoned the strength to ride shotgun in my own car the 100 minutes down the NJ Turnpike to Raz's place. The rest of the night went surprisingly well; after starting slow I found my groove and was able to take down several forties. Highlight of the evening, however, came in an exchange I had with some local chick. She approached asking to borrow a lighter. I obliged, after explaining how important it was for me to hold onto that particular lighter (I'd been trying to make a Bic last for a year, and explained this to her as such). She came back a few minutes later, handed me the lighter, and sat down to talk to me. Normally I would've considered myself lucky, but apparently vomiting blood and bile all day doesn't work wonders for one's breath. You should have seen the look on her face the first time I spoke. She put a hand over her mouth and gave me a look that was equal parts disbelief and despair. Needless to say I struck out. At least I got my lighter back.

2. Everclear urinal night, 2001: Around this time I had really gotten into grain alcohol. I went to school in Pennsylvania where it wasn't available, so returning from holiday breaks and long weekends from Jersey with Everclear was a big deal. I don't think I'm going out on much of a limb by saying that no one was as into it as I was. Sure, I'd sold a few bottles, used its high alcohol content to lure a couple unsuspecting women into bed, and shared plenty with my friends, but no one was as fond of the 195-proof sauce as me. After awhile, even my closest drinking partners abandoned the Clear for more conventional imbibing methods. It was around this time I found myself at my friends' apartment drinking the stuff alone. Everyone else was sipping liquor, but the problem is that Everclear is more than twice the potency of regular alcohol. It's actually perfectly safe and quite cost-effective when used properly, but when you take down the same volume as those drinking normal shit, disaster is bound to ensue. This time was no different. Of course I blacked out, and when I came to I was being shaken awake by my friend Dev. Vomit was everywhere. My head was resting on a urinal in my dormitory bathroom. Dev told me it was 7:30 in the morning, which to me meant I could sleep in. Only problem was that it was a Monday morning. Slowly I began to notice the faces of some of the early risers from my floor stepping over me, those I wasn't really friends with. I'll never forget the looks of disgust and pity they shot me. Dev was kind enough to help me to my bed where I remained for nearly 24 hours, sleeping intermittently, moaning and suffering without eating. It was one of the only times I've ever been ashamed of myself.

1. The Hangover of Paraguayan Proportions, 2006: This was by far my worst hangover. It's dozens of levels in magnitude worse than my second worst hangover. I could even be talked into claiming it's the single most destructive hangover of all time, given the proper amount of alcohol necessary to make such a bold claim. It was summer 2006, and I was in Paraguay visiting a "friend" with a couple of my own. Let me state right from the start that this was the most unhealthy week of my life. First off, I was eating foreign food, much of which was slathered with this strange homemade hot sauce that resembled spoiled milk in both color and consistency. Second was the water, which no matter how safe it's claimed to be contains pathogens that outsiders just aren't used to. Third is the obvious element of nonstop drinking. What puts this situation over the top, and is likely the main reason for my extreme suffering, is that I refused to shit while I was there. Paraguay is a third-world country, officially speaking. It's normal in many respects, but its lack of infrastructure and common luxuries is what gives the country this distinction. When I got there, I was informed that you could not flush toilet paper down the toilet, as the drainage system was unable to handle it. This meant that upon wiping one's ass, one had to throw the soiled bombaclot in the garbage. This was unappealing to me. And that's just in the city...when in the jungle, where there are few proper toilets, one must squat over dugged holes in makeshift outhouses! Clearly I was disgusted, and made my voice heard as such from the get-go. Being that all my friendships are spiteful, my invocations fell on deaf ears. This upset me, so I made a bold proclamation: I would go the entire eight days in Paraguay without taking a shit. Of course, no one believed me, but I was determined.

It went on like this for days...eating, drinking, not shitting. Each morning became tougher to overcome, until about the fifth day it happened. It was a normal night by all accounts. There were about seven of us chilling in a bar downtown. At the end of the night when the bill came, I cavalierly declared I would pick up the tab. This is something I do often, to my detriment. Here I was lucky because seven people drinking in Asuncion for five hours apparently equal just $35 American. We took cabs back to the hotel, and I pushed for the night to continue. Being the bitch my "friend" Alistair is, he opted out in favor of sleep and sex with his girlfriend (what a loser!). Only Shampton, whom I halfheartedly admit is a fucking trooper, was down to keep going. We parted ways with the hottest all-girl rock band in the southern hemisphere, The Sandy Vaginas, and headed across the street to Cafecitos Pub. This place was a goldmine! The drinks were cheap even by their standards. The bar was empty, which I love. And, best of all, the two middle-aged female bartenders popped on interracial anal sex porn for our viewing pleasure!

They spoke no English and only I spoke minimal Spanish, so there was a definitive communication barrier. We settled our tab via a ledger they kept which was left on the bar top. Every so often one of us would give them money and they'd mark it down. At one point, I gave them 70,000 Guarani and went to the bathroom. A minute later, Shampton entered and told me he'd settled the most recent tab. The only problem was that I'd settled that same tab. These women tried to hustle us! I exited el bano hell-bent on revenge. I spent the next twenty minutes screaming expletives and broken Spanish about how we'd been cheated. The three or four other patrons in there were obviously frightened, but I remained undeterred. Even as Shampton lost interest and disassociated himself with me I continued fighting the good fight. I would not be denied. The bartenders argued their point faithfully, but soon enough they broke. In the end, the owner/head bartender handed me my money back. It was the equivalent of $5. I threw it down upon her, screaming "Inaceptable!" Shampton continued to ignore me. I left the bar and stumbled across the street to my hotel.

The next morning there was much rumbling about last night's events. The first thing I remember upon waking is severe suffering. Al and the boys were questioning me, nay, sticking it to me for the shit that went down. In an attempt to show them my actions were not grounded in drunkenness, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and chugged it. Immediately I realized it was a mistake. I coolly made my way to the bathroom, vomited, and returned as if nothing happened. I did my best to appear normal.

For reasons I can only chalk up to bad karma, that was the most active day of the entire trip. We walked all over the city as I moaned and groaned. That night we went to a very loud jazz club. Nearly 24 hours removed from the incident and I was having the hardest time of my life. The music was so loud, and I kept having to get up to walk around just to settle myself. I couldn't sit still, lest I vomit, and left the club at least ten times in four hours to fight the inevitable. I even walked to a nearby pharmacy looking for a miracle cure, each time returning in just as poor of shape as before. My friends were far too gleeful, only further compounding the problem.

I have never been nearly as hungover as that day before or since. In reading this entry back to myself there are no words to do it justice. In retrospect, it was much more than a hangover. It was a wholly new state of being. It's the reason why, in my group of friends, an entirely original term was lent to this phenomenon: The Hangover of Paraguayan Proportions. The long-short of it is I spent 45 minutes in a Sao Paolo, Brazil airport bathroom and ended up ok in the end. I probably would've been better served to bite the bullet and shit in less than stellar conditions like everyone else. I'm sure it's the main reason why things played out the way they did. But you know what? I'm the only person who can say he lasted eight days in Paraguay without taking a crap. So there.