Matt Forney
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The Labor Day Suicide Weekend

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What follows is the largely true account of a night I had in Des Moines last September, when me, FFY and Bronan partied our asses off. I say “largely” because I spent most of the night utterly wasted and blacked out about half of what happened, including an epic rap battle between Bronan and two of FFY’s buddies. As a result, this article is less a recitation of straight fact and more an exploration of the mind of a violently irresponsible jackass.

I’m ordinarily a very taciturn and polite guy, but alcohol turns me into a raging maniac, and wanting to make Labor Day Weekend as memorable as possible, I spent most of it chugging my patented Arsenal of Dumb-ocracy, a mix of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, lemon-lime Gatorade and Full Throttle. Under the spell of this devil’s drink, I’ve destroyed kitchen appliances, gotten laid, and caused grievous bodily harm to myself and others.

In other words, SUPER AWESOME STORY TIME!!!!!111

If you ever have the (mis)fortune to go binge drinking with me, here are my stages of drunkenness:

  • Buzzed Matt: 1-3 shots. No appreciable difference than when I’m sober, aside from being marginally more likely to complain about your taste in music.
  • Chatty Matt: 4-6 shots. The sweet spot of sociability; I’ll chat your ear off and can approach girls without coming up with excuses. Unfortunately, I’m usually only in this stage for about fifteen minutes at a time.
  • Violent Matt: 7-10 shots. Where the trouble begins. I start randomly insulting people, bragging about my various accomplishments, and threatening physical violence. I also lose the ability to fake sobriety.
  • Maudlin Matt: 11-14 shots. I start babbling incomprehensibly and being sentimental. As awful as it sounds. Most people prefer Violent Matt.
  • Comatose Matt: 15+ shots. By this point, I’m usually zonked out in the bathroom or the couch. If I’m still vertical, I’m silent and unwilling to do anything aside from stare into space. Vomiting will take me back down into Maudlin Matt.

All times approximate (extremely approximate):

8:50: We start pre-gaming. FFY throws on some hip-hop and I mix up some Dumb-ocracy in a solo cup. As I maunder into Buzzed Matt territory, I realize that this night is not going to end well.

9:05: Two solo cups later, Chatty Matt enters the building.

9:10: FFY changes the music. I suggest dubstep, to which he claimed that I’d been talking shit about dubstep on Twitter some time ago. I told him I didn’t remember that and that I like Bassnectar. Time for more wodka.

9:45: Barely an hour later and I’ve gone through four solos. I don’t realize it until I notice that my liter bottle of Tito’s is half-empty. I proudly announce this to Bronan, who smirks and remarks to the effect of, “That’s not good!” This night is really not going to end well.

10:00: We pile into FFY’s car to hit the bars.

10:05: Half-a-liter of vodka catches up with me and I zoom straight into Comatose Matt territory.

10:30: We reach the bar. I’m about to check out for the night. The last thing I remember is Bronan’s face.

11:10: I feel the rumblings of barf from my stomach. Panicking, I scan for the bathroom.

11:11: The vomit starts surging up my throat. I’m not going to make it.

11:12: I dash over to the nearest trash can and shove my head inside, vomit erupting out of my mouth. I retch at least four times before my stomach gives me a break.

11:13: Relieved, I suddenly feel a series of hands firmly escorting me away. Next I know, I’m standing outside on the sidewalk.

11:15: It dawned on me: I’d been kicked out. Realizing that the guys were likely wondering where I was, I texted FFY.

11:20: Bronan emerges from the bar. We go on a walk around town.

11:25: Maudlin Matt comes storming out of the gate. I start ranting incoherently to Bronan. He puts up with it. The whole thing feels palpably gay.

11:40: We realize that we’re lost in downtown Des Moines. Bronan is looking for some store or building or something. We vainly fiddle with our smartphone map apps before finding our way back to the bar.

12:05: We pile back into the car. Bronan drives, I ride shotgun, and FFY and the Virgin are in the back.

12:10: Violent Matt is now in town. The Virgin starts asking me questions. I have zero desire to speak to her or anyone, so I start insulting her, drunkenness blunting my ability to string together a coherent thought. I am vaguely aware I might be fucking up FFY’s chances for a notch. I keep running my mouth anyway.

12:30: We stop at a Kum & Go for munchies. I buy a turkey sandwich.

12:45: Back in the car, the Virgin starts talking to me again. I devolve into full-on megalomania, bragging about how I’m from New York, which automatically makes me superior to her. FFY deflates me by informing her that I’m from Syracuse, not Manhattan. I decide that I will bash his face in later.

12:50: I keep ranting about how the Virgin should be thankful that I’m gracing a flyover country shithole like Des Moines with my presence. FFY reminds me that I’m sleeping at his house. I realize I’m being a dick and apologize.

1:00: Back at FFY’s pad. The Virgin and I are still going at it. Between bites, I brag about how I’m gonna be famous one day and she’ll be glad to have met me. She jibes to the effect, “But right now you’re a guy who got kicked out of a bar, eating a sandwich.” From humble beginnings, sweetie.

1:05: FFY and the Virgin retreat to his room to bang it out while Bronan and I join the rest of the guys to watch an Indonesian ripoff of The Matrix.

1:15: I pass out.

6:30: I wake up feeling like a bag of shit. My mouth is drier than the Sonora and my head feels like someone’s been whaling on it with a mallet. I’d been sleeping upright for some reason and my neck was craned at a forty-five degree angle, making me look like a paraplegic. My back felt it’d been run over by a bulldozer.

6:35: I survey the scene. Bronan and the other guys were splayed out on the couches. The DVD player was still going, the movie menu playing on a neverending loop, the Danny Elfman-ripoff theme boring into my brain. One of the dogs, a golden retriever, was trying to lick my foot like it was a juicy bone.

6:37: I look down at my watch to see the time, only to realize my watch is gone. I stick my hand in my pocket and find it. The watch itself is still working, but the spring holding the strap in place is dented beyond repair. I ascertain that I must have used it to try and bash someone in the face.

6:40: I shamble into the kitchen and pour myself some Gatorade. The dogs follow me. I let them out into the yard so they’ll leave me alone.

6:45: I try and look for the remote so I can shut off that fucking movie. I spend all of ten seconds before giving up and faceplanting on the couch.

12:00: I crawl up from the couch, headache gone and rehydrated. Bronan, FFY and everyone else are already awake. FFY informs me that I “pissed a lot of people off last night.” I take him at his word.

01:00: FFY takes me and Bronan into his room to show us his bloodied bedsheets. We congratulate him on the +1.

That picture doesn’t convey the sheer carnal carnage that I witnessed. I remarked at the time that the sheets looked like the aftermath of the Manson murders.

Verdict: chugging half a bottle of Tito’s in under an hour is not a good idea, but it will give you some entertaining stories.

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