December 27, 2006
Originally published May 2, 2005
I know very few people who DON'T have an entertaining story to tell about getting drunk on Southern Comfort. That stuff is sweet enough to go down like children's cough syrup but strong enough to bring a tall dog to his knees. I can't stand to even SMELL it anymore.
I think I was 18 years old at the time when I and my friends Steve and Ben bribed a black guy in Sandfly, Georgia, to buy us some booze. They got beer. I got a pint of Southern Comfort.
I have only a very dim recollection of what all transpired that night, but I DO remember drinking that entire pint of sweet whiskey. I became as drunk as a barnyard owl. I puked a couple of times. Gravity became my sworn enemy.
Steve had a neat little rec-room in his attic, and we could get there via a ladder in the garage, so we never had to disturb his parents. We decided to spend the night up there, but I had to piss first.
I walked into the back yard, wrapped my arm around one of those old T-Bar clothesline posts and commenced to pee. But I lost my balance, started twirling around that post backward in a counter-clockwise rotation and almost augered myself into the ground before I ended up lying flat on my back and pissing straight up in the air.
I pissed all over myself.
Steve thought it was funny. Ben thought it was funny. Hell, even I thought it was funny at the time. What I DIDN'T think was funny was the fact that I was too drunk to climb the ladder to the attic room by myself and nobody wanted to help me because I was soaking wet with piss.
I finally made it up there somehow and managed a few hours of dream-tossed sleep. I awoke the next morning with The Hangover of the Gods and I smelled like a homeless man marinated in asparagus piss. I managed to crawl back down the ladder and puke a few times in Steve's back yard. That Southern Comfort sure tasted better going down than it did coming back up again.
I didn't do much more than sleep and drink fruit juice for the next two days. I was a sick puppy. I tasted Southern Comfort every time I burped, and that was a lot. I felt as if someone had turned me inside-out and implanted broken glass under my skin. I felt as if I had been wrapped in barbed wire and then rolled down a hill. I was NOT a well man.
I have never experienced the desire to taste that stuff again since that night. Once burnt, twice learnt for me. That was a lesson that hung with me for a long, long time.
Have YOU ever gotten drunk on Southern Comfort?
All content © Rob Smith