Homie Williams & The Night of the Irish Car Bombs

Irish Car Bombs

THE RECIPE:

  • 1/2 oz. of Bailey’s Irish Cream
  • 1/2 – 1 full pint of Guinness
  • 1/2 oz. of Irish Whiskey (I personally recommend Jameson, but to each their own.)

NOTE: reposted from an old blog. It also contains LOTS of cursing, so if you find yourself offended by “naughty language,” allow me to kindly point you towards the exit…

All of this is true, more or less; the parts that are less true are only under suspicion as being “less true” because they have been recounted back to me by witnesses to my behavior on that fateful summer night two years ago, and I’m glad they were there to witness it because, well, I remember very, very little of what the fuck happened. Most of what happened during this blog post is one big, gaping, alcohol-blockade in my memory, a missing twenty-four hours that I will never, ever get back. And, as you’d expect with an introduction like that, I had the worst goddamn hangover imaginable. Imagine that out there, somewhere that only God knows where, there is a scientist, and this scientist has one sole purpose in life, one divine fucking mission, and that divine fucking mission is this: to create the world’s most powerful hangover, the kind that slices your brain right down the middle and stops you from being able to enjoy even blinking without getting sick for — oh, I don’t know — two or three days.This is the the type of hangover that I experienced on this delightful morning in question. Now, I am nothing special in the realm of getting hammered while going to a state university: this is a global experience, one that is a rite of passage for every young man in their early twenties, at least one here in the good ‘ole United States of America. I love this damn country.

To be completely honest, I remember roughly ten percent of what happened between the hours of six P.M. – that’s just me estimating at exactly what moment the liquor hit my lips, because really I have no idea – and nine A.M. the next morning, which is hard to forget when you find yourself waking up at that hour in your bed, no recollection whatsoever how you got there, and your pillow is covered in blood. Your head is pounding, your pants (plus one sock) are missing, the sun is blasting through the windows way too goddamn hard, and – oh yes – your lip is split open too, which can be incredibly, oddly comforting when your first thoughts upon waking are that you just woke up inside of a horror movie. Somehow, in that fifteen hour interval of complete and utter darkness, I had cracked my lip open and misplaced my plants. Did I get in a fight and ditch the pants when I decided in my inebriated state that I needed to run faster? Did I throw them at my attackers in order to blind them while I made by cowardly getaway? That sounds like something I would do. Did I have drunken, blacked-out sex with some mystery girl, face shrouded forever in a dark haze of whiskey and Guinness, and at the moment where we reached our mutual point-of-climax, intense and fulfilling I’m sure, she decided to punch me right in the mouth and steal my pants (plus, let’s not forget, that one stupid fucking sock)?

This can not be good. Just what the hell happened last night?

After about five minutes, I stumble out of my bedroom, eyes not in focus but still trying my hardest to scan for the floor for my pants, and I make my way towards the living room where my buddy – let’s call him “Paul” – is crashed out on the couch. Paul, besides being the main witness to the events of what happened the night before, has been one of my best friends since elementary school. We grew up together in the same small town, went all through elementary, middle, and high school together, and ever since we left that small town we enjoyed the college experience for all the typical reasons that young dudes enjoy the college experience. In case you missed the experience, here is a small little rundown of just what I’m talking about: girls, knowledge, drinking, fighting, pot, girls, pot, drinking 40′s out of brown paper bags partly to get drunk and partly to enjoy the sense of irony, knowledge, friendship, meeting random and ridiculous people in situations that are both equally random and ridiculous, drinking, shenanigans and, as you would expect, girls…once you add in studying and graduating, there’s your typical college experience for a middle-class, small-town white kid in a populated region of the Pacific Northwest. Paul was wide awake, rubbing his temples, laying on his side while the television was turned to SportsCenter at a low-volume, and judging by his face he had had about the same liquor-filled experience as me except – and this is fucking crucial – he could actually remember just what the hell happened. Deep in those eyes, past the pain of the Hiroshima-rivaling hangover, was a hint of glee and wonder that was brought upon me entering the room.

For a moment he stares at me, and then comes the grin.

To anyone who’s ever had a blacked-out evening, you know exactly what that sudden grin on the face of your close, dear friend means: you did something ridiculously stupid/hilarious/cool/embarrassing last night, and the answer to which one of these it is is simple: the answer is all of them, rolled together like a burrito stuffed with terrifying buffoonery. We all know that horrible look. You know exactly what’s coming next as soon as you see it. Your heart can not help but sink.

“Hey dude…” I say, searching for my pants and hoping my pack of cigarettes were in there, too. I need those fucking cigarettes and I need those pants, pronto.

“Dude.” It takes Paul about fifteen seconds to utter just this one syllable. I can’t tell whether he’s going to puke or whether he just wants Stuart Scott to shut the hell up.

“What the fuck happened last night?”

Actually, maybe I don’t want to know. Some things are left for you and whoever/whatever the creator is to haggle about later, when that eventual day comes.

“Dude. Dude,” fifteen seconds once again between each syllable. “That was wild. You don’t remember shit?”

This….can’t be good.

“No. Of course not. Fuck. Tell me. Just tell me now.”

Really? Nothing?”

“I don’t remember shit. I remember being at the bar, and we were with Sara & Layla. Right? Yeah. Right. The waiter brought us our drinks. I know I didn’t really eat anything yesterday except for the popcorn they kept giving us, and maybe some jerky around noon. I should’ve ate more. I remember all four of us took those Irish car bombs. And then….nothing. Blank. Zip. Complete fucking blank, dude.”

Dude. After last night, they will never, EVER forget you. I’ve never seen anything like that. You went beast-mode, absolutely beast-mode, dude. Congratulations. Beast-MODE.”

“…What?”

Just keep this in mind before I start recounting this stupid fucking odyssey: I’m not really a drinker. I mean, I can drink, but I usually only do socially, usually a beer or two out at the local bars here around Eugene – usually downtown, usually The Horse’s Head or Max’s. The type of drinking I’m talking about is “the bender,” the legendary tales of drinking that are passed down from generation to generation, lad to lad, the ones that are retold in bars that the very same tale took place in and everyone leans in close to head the story like it was a campfire and they were close to freezing to death. Many-a-faces were broken, and many of laughs were had by all – once the teeth were collected off the floor, of course. What the fuck was I talking about again? Oh, yeah: Homie Williams & The Night of The Irish Car Bombs. My tale does not involve fights or throwing bottles or trying to make a bouncer look like a dumbass. In this tale, I am the asshole, I am the “weapons-grade retard,” I am the one who made a total fool of himself and apparently had a fucking blast doing it. I wish I could remember the supposedly amazing time I had, but that’s the price you pay when you decide to just go wild at the bar one Wednesday evening in the summer of twenty-ten.

It was a year for doing for stuff like that, in case your memory is hazy like mine. Let you give you context: I was hanging out with one of my best friends, two cute girls were at my apartment, my relationship with one of my ex-girlfriends was coming to a lame and dramatic end, and I had absolutely nothing going on that night.

And, get this: I only had a taco and that was earlier in the day, maybe around noon or so. I had barely gotten any sleep from the night before anyways (late night writing session was in full effect well past two o’clock in the morning plus who knows whatever ex drama was going on…you know how it goes, am I right? am I right??) and I’m sure something had pissed me off earlier because I was in full smartass mode, smarmy and pretentious and ready to let loose at the drop of the proverbial hat. Normally, I’m quiet and kind of shy and witty when I feel like it, but I usually keep to myself and just try to keep my cool in all situations.

“Hey! We should go to the bar. It’s a Wednesday night, right?!”

“Yeah!”

“I’m buying!”

“No, I’m buying!”

(Note: I do not recall who’s talking here. I’m sorry. It doesn’t really matter anyways…moving on?)

“No, let me. I’m buying.”

“Where the fuck are my keys?”

“Over there on the couch. Let’s go, we’ll take my car anyways.”

“Okay!”

Yadda yadda yadda, we end up at the bar that and start drinking. That should be obvious enough. It’s August and the sun is just beginning to set. I haven’t really eaten anything, I’m probably dehydrated, and I had some cash to spend and nothing to lose. These are the key ingredients for what is usually one hell of a story. Mine’s a good story, and quite possibly one you could relate to, but I also view it as sort of a depressing story. I had one hell of a fucking good time – even if I don’t remember it – and now I have a blog on which to write about it, because how no matter how weird and depressing and stupid my story may be, I still feel as if I should write about it. One must always write about the first time one experiences what is known in many drinking circles as an “Irish Car Bomb.” The ingredients of this alcoholic bomb: Irish whiskey is put in a shot glass with Irish cream, and then this shot glass is dropped in to a pint glass full of stout – mine was filled with Guinness, which also happens to be my favorite alcohol beverage (besides a White Russian, oh yes, fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck yes). The trick to the Irish Car Bomb is that you have to chug the contents of the shot glass mixed with the contents of the pint glass very, very quickly, otherwise your Irish Car Bomb will curdle and then you’ll want to vomit everywhere. I do not recommend vomiting everywhere and making a fool of yourself, so drink up dear readers and drink up fast. Your drink depends on it.

The Irish Car Bomb gets you drunk quickly – this is one of the primary reasons why I love it so, besides the fact that it’s delicious and Guinness is a primary ingredient – and within twenty-minutes of us reaching the bar, I guzzled down three of them. For those who are sitting here reading this stupid tale and also happen to enjoy elementary mathematics, that’s six shots of whiskey and six pints of Guinness. I also hear some words on the breeze, words that my own fingers brought to life, and, unless my ears deceive me, they say this: I haven’t really eaten anything….I’m probably dehydrated….I had some cash to spend….nothing to lose….cute girls….relationship with the girlfriend is crashing and burning like the fucking Hindenburg….this can equal disaster, or at least a situation that drags on for awhile and ends up being hilarious. In my situation, I went with the latter.

But, in case you had forgotten, I remember very little of what happened after I had consumed those three wonderful Irish Car Bombs, excerpt for the occasional flashback that is suddenly brought in to focus by my good buddy – my witness – recounting the story back to me in full. Like the narrator from Joseph Conrad’s Heart Of Darkness, he will lead us through what exactly happened to me after I consumed the six shots of Irish whiskey and six pints of Guinness, thrown together in one swift move and drank with absolute urgency for fear of the horrible curdling. It’s really, really gross and anyone who has gone for the Irish Car Bomb and experienced drinking curdled car bomb will back me up on this. I’m not kidding, drink that beautiful brew concoction fast. Our narrator down this story’s Congo will reveal to us what exactly became of Jackson Williams that night and why he woke up with a pillow covered in blood and a headache that can only be described as “brain-rupturing.” Lead us through this tale of profound, stupid darkness, dude. Actually, maybe this comparison to Heart of Darkness doesn’t exactly work (I’m not exactly Kurtz, or maybe I’m just remembering that painfully fucking boring novel wrong). It doesn’t really matter. Fuck you. Moving on.

This is apparently what happened, barely remembered by me, and all of it is true (more or less). Here is my interpretation of the story I was told about myself by a buddy who witnessed my atrocious behavior, about the night that Mr. Jackson Williams, your humble and neurotic narrator, went in to “beast-mode”:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

YOU STARTED OUT FINE, BRO. IT WAS ALL GOOD.

Okay, this makes sense. I’m usually chill and (fairly) calm and reserved, excerpt for my random episodes of manicness. I can always keep my cool and in fact this is a part that I do remember when I have my hazy, ‘Nam-dream flashbacks brought on by having the whole store recounted to me. I started out fine, bros; all four of us sat down at a table and ate from the bowl of free popcorn that the bar placed out and refilled on occasion at each table. I’m a popcorn fucking fiend and – as I’ve noted several times already – I had barely eaten anything that time, so this was a welcome treat. I remember looking around and scoping out the scene. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual crowd on a Wednesday night: frat bros gathering at one edge of the bar, drinking because they have nothing better to do and also because it’s expected from them, they’re supposed to act like those very douches who kneel at the alter of Heineken and jager-bombs; you have a small pack of girls at some other table, not really dressed for anything fancy – not expecting much, and not really making a scene; you have the bouncer chilling on a stool by the front-door, bored and reading the Eugene Weekly. In one of my nebulous recalls of that night’s events, I think I scanned through the Eugene Weekly myself – why would I do that? Did I somehow expect to be able to read during my period of drunk-darkness? Did I even give a shit whether I could understand all those words blending together and dancing up and down the page with the movements of my freewheelin’ vision?

What an idiot I can be.

Let’s get some shots!”

They’re brought to the table and down they go through the throats of those four college-kids on a Wednesday night, just chilling and having fun at the bar. You know, normal college stuff. Those words also spelled my doom: as soon as I had consumed that shot of alcohol (what kind it was will obviously remain a mystery to all involved), that’s where we mostly go dark. There are flashes, yes, but the rest of this story will now mostly be constructed with my own creative license, guided by the events that were told back to me by my friend “Paul.”

AND, THEN, YOU STARTED TALKING SHIT…

Like the “you started out fine, bro, it was all good,” this also makes a fair amount of sense. I’m not a very big dude, but I come from a long, storied lineage of intelligent people + alcoholics + smartasses that are so skilled at being smartasses that some would classify them as wunderkinds, and sometimes, when I consume alcohol/am feeling overconfident, I can find myself talking massive amounts of shit, complex, over-the-top, intricately-designed webs of shit-talking, and I do this not because I want to but because it’s in my blood. I’m a Williams – a proud one at that – and the old family joke goes a little something like this: “the true sign of a Williams is the ability to use words in such a way that they could make Gandhi or even Jesus Christ himself throw a punch.” I possess that ability in spades, and on this night of all nights I was feeling both heavily intoxicated and I was feeling that special strain of confidence that only manifests itself when it feels like it has nothing to lose. Once it manifests itself, this special strain is hard to stop – especially in the hands of a Williams, like myself.

What did I say?”

Oh, not really that much,” Paul told me. “You would comment on the conversations the people at the next table were having, you weren’t involved in. You would make yourself involved in their private fucking shit. They were at their own fucking table, dude. You’d make jokes and shit, too.”

Really?”

Yeah. It started out kind of funny and kind of a little impressive, too, at first, but then it just would become obnoxious. You were friendly and shit, don’t worry about that, but you can’t be doing shit like that, dude. It was just a little too much, you know what I mean?”

Yeah, I do.”

And I think I yelled something at the door-bouncer. There wasn’t that very many people there to begin with (remember: it was a Wednesday night), so I’m sure he probably heard me. Paul doesn’t remember exactly what I yelled either, so this is probably another one that will obviously remain a mystery to all involved. This story is filled with them and let me just admit now that I’m feeling pretty lazy while I’m writing this. Not enough coffee and not enough chicken nuggets in the world could save me right now. I have a hazy little flashback of the door-bouncer looking up at me from his copy of the Eugene Weekly and then looking back down to his reading material. This makes sense because I’m not missing any teeth nor did I get thrown out on to the sidewalk.

Good bouncer.

THEN ME AND YOU DECIDED TO GO SMOKE A CIGGY, SO WE WENT OUT BACK.

Like most bars, this one had a covered smoking out back where all those like me can kick back with their beer and enjoy their incredibly disgusting, lung-crippling habit. The sun was still a sliver in the west so it wasn’t quite dark yet in Eugene and somehow we stumbled over to a table under the covered area, both of us sporting a Guinness in a pint glass and a cigarette between the lips. There’s a slight breeze and not that many people out there – it’s a habit that’s dying off, as I’m sure you’re aware. We used to be able to smoke inside the bar, but not no more. Oregon. It’s beautiful and it’s (mostly) liberal, and though I’m a liberal Oregonian, I still love my blue packs of American “I’m Such a Fucking Eugene Hipster” Spirit cigarettes and I pine for the old days of being able to smoke inside the bar, the days I missed since I’m a young bastard and picked up the habit near the end of high school and I didn’t reach the legal drinking age of twenty-one until the Spring of two-thousand and nine.

And then what happened?”

You started debating.”

Oh…shit.”

The table we stumbled over to was also occupied by two kids our age who were also going to the University of Oregon. These two dudes were both from Saudi Arabia and decided that – rock and roll – they wanted to come to school in America and get a good education, and their parents had enough money to send them here. You put the math together. They gladly offered to let us sit with them and kick back and drink some beer and watch the game that was on the television that the bar had put out in the smoking area. They quiet and laid-back and were just taking in the scenery of a typical night on campus.

Where you dudes from?”

We’re Saudi.”

That’s badass, dude. How are you looking America?”

It’s not bad. Girls are cute here. Eugene is very nice.”

But, as I’m bound to do, we spent the next hour out in the smoker’s covered area, debating everything from U.S. politics to foreign policy, especially those policies that govern the relationship between the United States and The Middle East; we compared cultures and I, being the curious, inquisitive person that I am – I’m a writer, it comes with the territory – apparently fired off ten-thousand questions, everything from life in Saudi Arabia to what it’s what emigrating to a place like America to get a good ‘ole-fashioned Bachelor’s degree. They…seemed to dig it. In the haze I remember them being quiet and well-mannered, and they were not offended when I criticized the Middle East, nor was I offended when they criticized our country, I’m not blind to the unbelievably stupid things that the American government/American people do, and that I did not get offended is miraculous enough – remember: I come from a long, storied lineage of intelligent people + alcoholics + smartasses that are so skilled at being smartasses that some would classify them as wunderkinds, and sometimes, when I consume alcohol/am feeling overconfident, I can find myself talking massive amounts of shit, complex, over-the-top, intricately-designed webs of shit-talking, and I do this not because I want to but because it’s in my blood.

What next, friendo?

WE WENT BACK IN & YOU KNOW “BORROWED” SOME OTHER TABLE’S PITCHER.

I….what? Huh? I did what?

Here’s the story: by this time – if you’ve been keeping along with the sordid details of this blog post – I was completely in blackout-mode. As one of the girls recounted to me: “you stopped forming words and mostly stuck to gestures and gibberish.” That quote was probably unnecessary, but I felt like painting a pretty little picture of your humble narrator, Jackson Williams, at that supreme moment in time. But about that picture….so, here’s what happened:

Apparently, after my buddy and I had come back inside from our several cigarettes & my random, globetrotting debate with two kids from Saudi Arabia (actually, one of them might have been Iranian, not that it really makes a difference, unless maybe some foreign policy buff out there can fill me on those two nations’ geopolitical problems and cultural differences and whatnot), we strolled through the fog of our drunkenness and while stumbling through that inebriated marsh we discovered that we were out of beer. My pint of Guinness was empty and whatever the fuck Paul was drinking had been cashed by his second cigarette. When you’re in this boggy marsh and you’re stumbling through the fog, you sometimes do some wild things to try and find your way back home.

And what do I, your friend Jackson Williams, do to find my bearings once again and return to normalcy after spending what was probably probably only a minute but felt like an eternity in that fog of absolute blankness? Why, my eyes for a brief, clear second caught sight of a pitcher of beer looking all lonely at a nearby table – a lonely table that was occupied by five people, three dudes plus two girls. I had never met these people before in my life, probably will never see them again, but that’s never stopped me in my life, not to mention I was feeling incredibly friendly at that point….and, so, emerging out of my fog, I walked right up to their table, smiled, nodded, asked them how were they doing – who knows if I even formed words, I like to believe that I did – and then, in one of the ballsiest moves one could pull off at a bar, I grabbed the pitcher these strangers who I had never met before had bought for themselves to enjoy their evening, and proceeded to pour myself a drink in to my glass, right before their very eyes, fucking stunned no doubt they were. I did not act nervous, I did not act tough, I did even ask their permission. I merely walked up, smiled and nodded at them, acted polite, and…refilled my own glass from their pitcher. According to Paul, they did absolutely nothing to stop me. They were too stunned by the sheer audicity of what I had just done. I like to think that they went home and told their friends about the kid with the glasses who walked up, calm, confident and casual, and then filled his own glass with their pitcher, like some old friend just stopping in for a quick drink.

And did I say thank you? “No,” Paul tells me. After I had filled up my glass, I smiled and nodded and gave them a little wave goodbye and then went back to the open table where me and Paul and the two girls were sitting. I spoke more gibberish and enjoyed my popcorn, the pool mysteriously refilled. I was hammered beyond repair, so that whole “mysteriously refilled” thing to me felt like magic. All four of us finished up whatever beverage we were drinking and then decided to make our exit.

DO YOU KNOW HOW TO BREAKDANCE? NO? WELL, YOU THOUGHT YOU DID.

As we were leaving the bar, me being easily the drunkest in the group, I decided to do something goofy and out-of-character: I decided to try and pass myself off as a breakdancer, something that I have never done in my life. If you don’t believe me — nah, Jackson, you got mad skillz, bro, I believe in you dawg — then I feel bad for you. I do not possess these “mad skillz” that you speak of, bro. Originally, I started this out as a joke, but then something snapped in to my brain that said: “Hey, Jackson, it’s your Ego talking to you here aaaaannnnnnnddddd we need to have a chat…what if you COULD breakdance? What if by some miracle you pulled it off and you looked all fly and cool and shit? Wouldn’t that RULE, duder brother man? Yeah? I’ve only got your back, my main main.” And so I went for it. Now, with breakdancing, you normally need a pad to be able to pull off your tricks. I, Jackson Williams, did not have such a luxury as a mat at my disposal. I had the concrete sidewalk outside out of a relatively busy campus bar. I went for it, dear readers, I fucking went for it. I gave it my best shot, I went for the gold or even the silver if I fucked up enough, I was going to Michael Phelps this impromptu breakdancing….with no skill at all…none whatsoever….on a concrete sidewalk….in front of what could have been fifteen people, or to my blurred vision they looked like thirty people…while being the drunkest I’ve ever been in my life. Fuck.

Can you guess what happened? Yep, you fucking guessed it:

I fell flat on my face on to the concrete sidewalk, hard, and with all my weight my face met cement and my little dance routine came to a sad, pathetic, totally-square ending. My spirit should’ve been crushed and my heart crushed after being at the big Random Breakdancing Outside Of Campus Bars competition — IT’S THE BIG MEET, THE SUPREME DANCE-OFF YOU GUYZZ — but I was too drunk to care at that particular moment. I love you, dear readers, and because of that I will be the first to admit this little known fact about me: I’m a fucking idiot.

Breakdance-1-

DO YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW YOU WOKE UP LIKE YOU WERE IN A HORROR MOVIE?

Was it the breakdancing? Was it…the breakdancing?

“Yes. We picked you up off the concrete, there’s blood everywhere.”

Damn.

“Yeah.”

Then what?

“We drove back to your apartment and then we had to drag you to your room.”

Is that why my pants were missing?

“Yep, you fucking guessed it. As we were dragging you, they kept coming off, so we just gave up and decided to tell you what happened tomorrow.”

Any evidence of this?

WE’VE GOT PICTURES, DUUUUUUDE!  Hahahahahahahaha!

Fuck. And now there’s a blog post about it.

“Yes. Yes there is. You’re a fucking idiot, Jackson Williams.”

Yes. Yes I am.

Jackson Williams.

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