The BS 6 - The Parade

Damn, somehow I went from blogging bimonthly to just monthly. And it's already October, what the hell? Time, my nemesis, what malice you decree unto my bosom, what ominous shadows of foreboding you bestow upon my eyes! Will you not spare me your wroth? Lo! I beseech you, grant me reprieve of your lies.

Well that's my attempt at esoteric poetry.

Alright. This post is the continuation and culmination of The BS. Open your books to the final chapter of The BS: Chapter 6 - The Parade. Oh my dear sweet Lord, the parade.

I really need a scanner.

I've got to explain something about myself first: I am not a big drinker, at all, so when I drink, it's a riotously embarrassing time. For me, that is. Okay, so enter week 4 of my trip to Brazil. There I am one Saturday afternoon, brooding in my apartment because there is nothing to do in Middleofnowheresville, Brazil, when suddenly I decide "I need my BAC to be at least 0.20, right now". So I went to the store and got a 12 pack of cheap beer and a pizza, which is the most American thing I've ever done, and proceeded to spend my night watching movies and getting hammered. Alone. But don't worry, I made friends soon after.

That's supposed to be Brazil's flag, not a cheeseburger.

Some extra background: I'm from the American Midwest. It's very flat there. Middleofnowheresville, Brazil, on the other hand, is in the mountains. Mountains like Denver-style, not like Nepal or anything. So, not so high up, but for someone who has lived his life in a place that would make Dark Age Christians convinced that the world was irrefutably flat, this is a dramatic difference in altitude.

And what do we know about getting drunk, kids?

...

Yes! The higher in altitude you are, the quicker you get drunk. And what do we know about yours truly?

...

Did I hear, "You don't drink often"? Yes! I mean no! No I don't! Before I knew it, it was four in the morning and I was pants-pissingly wasted, stumbling wildly into my bed, which I left two seconds after collapsing into to puke what I thought was all the America beer and pizza my poor stomach could handle.

And that was the last smile I wore for a while.

"Okay," I thought, "I puked so tomorrow I'll be fine", and I passed out. And then I started having a dream about drums and thunder and riots and a parade... until I realized that I wasn't at all dreaming and that, verily, a parade was taking place right outside of my apartment. At 8:00am. My head was splitting and pounding and giving birth to Athena and I could scarcely believe that an actual factual parade was seriously happening at that moment. But it was, oh, how it was. And it was uproarious. Sleep mocked me as it fluttered away from my life. And then I threw up.

And then I threw up again.

And then I threw up a few more times.

And then I drank some water, which I threw up.

Then I brushed my teeth, and then I threw up again, mintily. 

I really got to know the toilet well that day.

I vomited about three times an hour until like five o'clock. I think I puked upwards of 20 times that day, like past the bile-puking point and into the dry-heaving point. Naturally, I was concerned, but I was too exhausted and hungover to care. All I wanted to do was sleep for eternity which was impossible because of the FUCKING PARADE WHICH NEVER SEEMED TO END.

Sometime between waiting for the cessation of Satan's symphony, embracing the toilet, and hating my life in my bed, I thought "I'm gonna see exactly how many beers I drank last night".

I went to the fridge and noticed "Oh that wasn't a 12-pack, it was an 18-pack. Huh. I didn't even know they made those. Oh shit, I should really eat that cheese soon. And let's see... there are... TWO BEERS LEFT?!" And at that moment, I could've sworn that the band crescendoed.

Now, I am not a big guy. For me to drink 16 beers and not die is nothing short of miraculous, regardless of how much greasy pizza I ingested. Clearly, I far surpassed my goal of a BAC of 0.20, that was for sure.

To try and calm my stomach, I thought that I should drink some 7-Up or Sprite or something lemon-limey like that. I went to a little corner store to ask if they had Sprite, which was an ordeal in and of itself. See, in Portuguese, you don't say it "Sprite", you say it "Shpraichee" (it makes more sense than you think), so the cashier had no fucking clue what I wanted or was talking about, with drums and trumpets clamoring in the background all the while, completely severing the means of communication. But finally, between my broken Portuguese and the cashier's patience, I got a Sprite.

She was very nice about it though. I mean, I was obviously the most hungover person she had seen all year.

I threw that up too, by the way. It tasted just as good coming up as it did going down, though, so that was a sort of vile solace.

Anyway, the parade finally ended around 5 or so, and I had stomached a banana smoothie, which served as the treaty that the warring factions in my stomach needed all along. I napped blissfully, then woke up to eat real food, now that my body was open to the idea. My day in hell was over, it seemed, and around 10pm, I laid my weary head down so I could wake up bright and early the next day to try and reach those kids I was teaching. And wouldn't you know it, the moment, literally, the exact moment that my head hit the pillow, there were fireworks. For real. Across the way from my apartment, some people were lighting fireworks. For like an hour.

Now at that point, I was just like "well if you can't beat 'em...", so I got up and snapped some photos of said fireworks. Here's one:

Perhaps in The BS - Reprise, I'll talk about that church you see there.

And then, finally, I slept. And I couldn't so much as think about alcohol again for months.