The Night I Got Good Sammed

 

There comes a point in every college drinker’s life where he or she has way, way too much to drink. That was last Saturday night for me. Although the memories slide together like spilled beer, I’ll do my best to provide readers a quick summary of the night. To our non-Dartmouth readers: there are several vernacular slang usages included in the article. Please pardon their potential to confuse you, and please understand I’m not attempting neology.

homer drunk


First drink of the night: jello shots. I don’t know how or why we decided to make them, but they taste like Flintstones vitamins dropped in vodka like cereal. Bon appetit.

More people are arriving for our pregame. I’m mixing beverages and feeling suave, taking sips of booze in the mean time. Sort of like eating raw cookie dough while baking except you can’t get Good Sammed for indiscriminate chefery.

Well now my buddies and I are trying way too hard to look tough, so now of course I’m going to take some more generous sips of hard alcohol. I won the contest. Woopee!

 

Now there are way too many people and it’s hot, suffocatingly packed, music playing at 100 decibels, and absolutely off the chain. We’re throwing a pretty good pregame. Now I’m yelling at close range to try to hit on a pretty girl.

Pregame’s coming to a close, and I decide that rubbing beer into the carpet will remove the mystery stains. It’s like salt and club soda, right? Also, my economics textbook is still holding it’s own as a coaster, even under the absurd weight of handles and red cups.

I’m ready to call it a night because let’s be honest, I’ve had too much to drink already. Unfortunately I’m pulled back from the ropes by a surprisingly un-slurred, impromptu speech from a drinking buddy. Onward! Half a league onward, all in the Valley of Death!

(Authors note: there will now be even greater time lapses in my writing…these match the lapses in my memory)

We’re absolutely annihilating a team in a game of pong. Oh wait, that’s a table two tables away from us. It’s O.K., you can’t lose on a serve.

Nailed the top-spin. But where’s my partner? And where is the ball? My kingdom for a plastic ball!

Now I’m standing elevated on the staircase, dual-wielding and waving champagne bottles like a runway guy with batons. Everyone’s dancing.

Now I’m covered in spilled champagne and standing in sticky, jagged puddle of broken glass and party fouls. “I got it!” I yell into the ether.

Chasing the house dog with a buddy screaming, “He ate a pong ball! Pull his trigger!”

(untranslatable, unprintable noises) “I cut all of my fingers shotgunning! Of course my shirt’s covered in blood!”

“Why am I covered in dog hair?”

Hunched over the side of my bed to a buddy: “Yeah, you should probably Good Sam me.”

Talking to the Safety & Security officer: “Yes, I can walk! I’ll need pants though!”

In the car, riding to Dick’s house: “Sorry about the pants debacle…So….how bout them Pats?”

At Dick’s house: “No, I have no clue which fraternities I drank at!”

In bed at Dick’s house, speaking to my roommate for the night: “So, you come here often?”

***

Now it’s the morning, and I come to the awful realization that I Good Sammed myself. Cue soul-crushing guilt. Then the nurse arrives, and we have a pleasant conversation. She comforts me, assuring there are no judicial punishments. She (reasonably) suggests that I cut back my alcohol intake, and asks me if I want any food or anything to drink. I take blue powerade.

I check my search history on my iPhone: “how to clean stains with beer,” “proper usage of the semicolon,” “turn down for what lil john,” “can dogs digest plastic,” “ee cummings ocean poem,” “blood alcohol content calculator,” “hoe ti clean blood staum (sic),” “snapchat founder,” etc.

Now I’m at my mandatory BASICS (or Brief Alcohol Screening and Intervention for College Students, a pilot program recently launched by The College to reduce high-risk drinking) meeting. I’m still, shockingly, hung over. At least I turned in that essay on time. The man I meet with is polite, understanding, and educational. He presents the facts in a no-nonsense manner, and we both arrive at the conclusion that I should curtail my excessive drinking. Even though I know I’ve always known the simple truth that drinking is dangerous in excess, it’s not until now that I’ve had an outside, educated source truly convince me of the perils of over-drinking. Like any first step at behavioral modification, it feels good. I truly feel lucky to have the institutions in place that keep students from drinking. Even though I breezed through “Alcohol Edu” (an online alcohol education program all undergraduates are required to take) with ease, scoring a 100% on the final online test, and even though I’ve been a responsible drinker for most of my life, and even though I’m too proud to admit I’m flawed at times, I feel the overwhelmingly rewarding and relieving sense that I’ve finally understood how to safely engage in drinking. Honestly, I feel like I’ll tear up a little bit. I shake the man’s hand and thank him for his guidance and information.

I’m not exactly going to become a teetotaler, but I’m definitely drinking less and smarter. I’m keeping track of my drinking, drink by drink, and I’m establishing safeguards so that drinking never interferes with my health or academic life again. As a student, a journalist, and a human being, I feel grateful to attend a school where the administration knows when to punish, when to reward, and when to educate — especially outside the classroom.

— Hunter S. Thompson