The Birth of the Slamson
Anyway, I awoke Saturday morning in the bed of a gal I had been courting. She was Asian. Her roommate, Shmell entered the room and swiftly informed me that I had slept walked into her room in the early morning hours and took a healthy wizz in her hamper and on her snatch pillow. "Oh man," I said. She took it like a champ and brushed it off.
So it's about 9:30am, and I am feeling unusually spectacular. I exit the bedroom. Ah, a sight for sore eyes. Bunny and Dr. Funk are passed out on the couches. It was obvious that both tried to finish that one last Natural before calling it a night, but the majority of both ended up in their crotch regions. A ball tap for Bunny and a flick of the ear for Dr. Funk. It was time to get loose.
We throw SportsCenter on the tube and search the premises for alcohol. A few strangling beers are down the hatch before the 10am installment of SC begins. The shampoo effect kicks in. All three of us are really feeling our oats. At this point, the only alcohol left in the place is a handle of Admiral Nelson Rum and some Vlad. We grab the Rum and each take a shot. I can't take shots for shit. Call it being soft, I don't care. Go kick rocks. No chance I can muster up enough courage to take another shot of the devils piss. No chance I was going to stop drinking, and a mixed drink wouldn't tickle my fancy quick enough.
Being a double major in Chemical Engineering and Women's Studies, I took what I had learned in the classroom and applied it to the situation. I won't bore you with the chemical reactions, but here is what to do when you find yourself in a situation such as this. I filled up 3/4 of the shot glass with Rum. Filled the rest of the glass with Root Beer (Barq's, not that fairy Mug shit). Grab yourself a paper towel and fold it exactly four times in equal halves. Place the paper towel over the shot glass and grasp it with your palm over the top. Now slam it as hard as you can on the table. BOOM. SLAMSON. The soda fizzles through the alcohol. Take the shot immediately. Not a single hint of alcohol. It's like slugging foam from a Root Beer float. Bunny's favorite shirt provided us with the perfect name for the process. We dubbed the process as doing a Slamson.
It is now approximately 11:34am and the three of us could barely walk to the bathroom, let alone out of the apartment. The gals who resided at this place ended up joining us for some casual Slamsons as they were getting ready for the day. I wish I could tell you what happened in the next couple hours, but the next thing I was coherent for was waking up in one of their beds at 5pm feeling like dog do-do. The apartment was desolate. No one to be found. I grabbed my bag and headed back for the Meritz.
I arrived at my apartment to find the doors locked. BagManJones, Cousin-Fucker and Uncle Boner are nowhere to be found. I was not in the mood. All I wanted to do was go back to bed. I climbed down to our terrace and tried to make entry through our living room window. Nothing. I was exhausted and dehydrated, so I propped by bag against the wall and went to sleep. I was woken up by Cousin Fucker around 9pm.
Cousin Fucker: Dude what the fuck are you doing?
Me: Sleeping obviously.
Uncle Boner: What happened?
Me: Slamsons
Cousin Fucker gives a confused look to Uncle Boner
Uncle Boner: What the hell is a Slamson.
Me: Fuck you both, I need a shower.
--Gus