It's Called a Poopdeck for a Reason

Last Friday was a typical night out. I met friends randomly around the city and then proceeded to pass out on my friend's couch even though a perfectly sizable bed with a cloud-like pillow top awaited me at my abode. Who needed the comforts of home when there was the perfectly good comfort of half a bottle of vodka coursing through my veins?

The next day was a tad more subdued. I spent the day nursing my hangover by laying around with Josh on the couch watching the League. A nice lil Saturday. We BBQ-ed some rather large chunks of meat and picked up a couple of bottles of wine, a very relaxing day for this ol' bag.

After dinner we got a call from our friend Cyril who invited us over. Assuming the night would continue in its serene manner, we brought over a bottle of wine. We never suspected the level of escalation our night would have taken...

Upon entering the building, we were greeted with approximately 20 inebriated Cubs' fans just released from the cages of Wrigley. Their ferocious appetites and desires for drunken antics was insatiable. We parted ways temporarily to meet Cyril in his apartment.

My intentions for the evening were unwavering...for the moment. I was going to sip a couple of glasses of wine and enter a semi-comatose state by 10 or 11 pm. 'Yes', I kept telling myself, 'I was going to remain strong in my efforts' simply out of pure exhaustion from the night before.

While sitting on the balcony, we wondered what all the commotion on the rooftop was. Our curiosity got the best of us; so we ventured upstairs. When we opened the doors, we were greeted by slobbering girls attempting to be sexual through matted hair and Jaeger stains while gyrating against guys who were so drunk that they had to hold on to the wall for balance. Meanwhile, it was still daylight so the awkwardness of the situation could not be hidden by the mystery of the night and was grossly enhanced especially to us sober folk.

We safely tiptoed through the sweat-soaked, mobile mass of people to the other side of the roof. After duly making fun of the amateurs, my friends figured it was our turn to cause a ruckus. Personally, I lacked the zeal to initiate any sort of tomfoolery so I did not partake in the festivities for about 20 minutes. But due to my undying loyalty to my friends who were in 'dire need' of another player for Flip Cup, I donned my best drinkin' shoes and joined the fun. It only took about 30 minutes before I started to feel the effects of fun. I knew at that point that I was in it to win it.

The party then ventured to the neighbors' place downstairs. At first, we weren't greeted too kindly since we were the randoms who came unannounced. But since alcohol is the cause of and solutions to all life's problems, we quickly made friends over a shot of Captain Morgan. And then the dancing began...

Since I am of Greek descent and was wearing jeans, I started sweating profusely. I asked Hans for a pair of shorts and much to my delight, I stumbled upon the greatest boxer shorts I have *ever* seen in real life. They proudly displayed the genitalia of the statue of David with the Italian flag as a background. My camisole was long enough to cover his bits 'n' pieces so unsuspecting spectators of the dance-a-thon would get a flash of wiener every other minute...much to their dismay.

Then things got weird. In true college style, one of the partiers decided to throw the entire empty keg off the roof on to the building next to us. Welp, there goes *that* deposit! People were just throwing random shit everywhere. Paper towels ended up in the fan and beer cans splattered the floor. All the while, the dancers never skipped a beat, even when the couch almost tipped completely over.

The most memorable portion of the night came shortly after. Several people were on the balcony enjoying flavor country via Marlboro and Parliament cigarettes when an overwhelming odor came upon us. I have an incredible sense of smell so I knew what it was right away, but living in the city I got used to funky smells. Then Cyril yelled out saying someone had POOPED on the balcony and that he had actually stepped in it. Yes, you read that right...POOP! Everyone stampeded into the house as if the defecation was the first sign of the apocalypse. Needless to say, the party was effectively over.

We returned to our poopless (thank God) residence to wind down, but again things didn't go as planned. During our drunk eating, someone (who shall remain nameless) began having fun with food. In my stupor I decided to eat the crap out of oreos (no pun intended) and place them back in the container without the creamy inside...makes perfect sense, right? Josh, who happens to be running training for a triathalon, decided to take the healthy route and eat a banana. Well, the actual eating part didn't last very long. I smashed oreos in his face and to my surprise that did not elicit the response I was hoping for. I was thinking I could absolutely take this dude on. I envisioned the whole thing in my head of tripping him up and spinning into a WWF bodyslam. Too bad he's double my size and HAS BEEN TRAINING FOR A TRIATHALON for the past few months. Silly me. Instead, he proceeded to pin me to the ground and CRAM the banana straight into my bra of all places. I still have the scratches on my ta tas. Wah.

After being nearly pooped on and banana-ed to death, I had given up on the night. I took a bath, not a shower mind you, in my friend's apartment to attempt to defunk myself. Nothing like a drunk bath to clean off the shame from the night... ugh.

So there you have it. Lesson learned: nights you think are going to be calm and subdued can turn dramatically the other way when you combine, beer, people, and poop into one place. Party wisely, my friends...