Jackson Williams & The Night of The Irish Car Bombs

All of this is true, more or less; the parts that are less true are only under suspicion as being “less true” because they have been recounted back to me by witnesses to my behavior on that fateful summer night two years ago, and I’m glad they were there to witness it because, well, I remember very, very little of what the fuck happened. Most of what happened during this blog post is one big, gaping, alcohol-blockade in my memory, a missing twenty-four hours that I will never, ever get back. And, as you’d expect with an introduction like that, I had the worst goddamn hangover imaginable. Imagine that out there, somewhere that only God knows where, there is a scientist, and this scientist has one sole purpose in life, one divine fucking mission, and that divine fucking mission is this: to create the world’s most powerful hangover, the kind that slices your brain right down the middle and stops you from being able to enjoy even blinking without getting sick for — oh, I don’t know — two or three days.This is the the type of hangover that I experienced on this delightful morning in question. Now, I am nothing special in the realm of getting hammered while going to a state university: this is a global experience, one that is a rite of passage for every young man in their early twenties, at least one here in the good ‘ole United States of America. I love this damn country.

To be completely honest, I remember roughly ten percent of what happened between the hours of six P.M. – that’s just me estimating at exactly what moment the liquor hit my lips, because really I have no idea – and nine A.M. the next morning, which is hard to forget when you find yourself waking up at that hour in your bed, no recollection whatsoever how you got there, and your pillow is covered in blood. Your head is pounding, your pants (plus one sock) are missing, the sun is blasting through the windows way too goddamn hard, and – oh yes – your lip is split open too, which can be incredibly, oddly comforting when your first thoughts upon waking are that you just woke up inside of a horror movie. Somehow, in that fifteen hour interval of complete and utter darkness, I had cracked my lip open and misplaced my plants. Did I get in a fight and ditch the pants when I decided in my inebriated state that I needed to run faster? Did I throw them at my attackers in order to blind them while I made by cowardly getaway? That sounds like something I would do. Did I have drunken, blacked-out sex with some mystery girl, face shrouded forever in a dark haze of whiskey and Guinness, and at the moment where we reached our mutual point-of-climax, intense and fulfilling I’m sure, she decided to punch me right in the mouth and steal my pants (plus, let’s not forget, that one stupid fucking sock)?

This can not be good. Just what the hell happened last night?

After about five minutes, I stumble out of my bedroom, eyes not in focus but still trying my hardest to scan for the floor for my pants, and I make my way towards the living room where my buddy – let’s call him “Paul” – is crashed out on the couch. Paul, besides being the main witness to the events of what happened the night before, has been one of my best friends since elementary school. We grew up together in the same small town, went all through elementary, middle, and high school together, and ever since we left that small town we enjoyed the college experience for all the typical reasons that young dudes enjoy the college experience. In case you missed the experience, here is a small little rundown of just what I’m talking about: girls, knowledge, drinking, fighting, pot, girls, pot, drinking 40’s out of brown paper bags partly to get drunk and partly to enjoy the sense of irony, knowledge, friendship, meeting random and ridiculous people in situations that are both equally random and ridiculous, drinking, shenanigans and, as you would expect, girls…once you add in studying and graduating, there’s your typical college experience for a middle-class, small-town white kid in a populated region of the Pacific Northwest. Paul was wide awake, rubbing his temples, laying on his side while the television was turned to SportsCenter at a low-volume, and judging by his face he had had about the same liquor-filled experience as me except – and this is fucking crucial – he could actually remember just what the hell happened. Deep in those eyes, past the pain of the Hiroshima-rivaling hangover, was a hint of glee and wonder that was brought upon me entering the room.

For a moment he stares at me, and then comes the grin.

To anyone who’s ever had a blacked-out evening, you know exactly what that sudden grin on the face of your close, dear friend means: you did something ridiculously stupid/hilarious/cool/embarrassing last night, and the answer to which one of these it is is simple: the answer is all of them, rolled together like a burrito stuffed with terrifying buffoonery. We all know that horrible look. You know exactly what’s coming next as soon as you see it. Your heart can not help but sink.

Hey dude…” I say, searching for my pants and hoping my pack of cigarettes were in there, too. I need those fucking cigarettes and I need those pants, pronto.

Dude.” It takes Paul about fifteen seconds to utter just this one syllable. I can’t tell whether he’s going to puke or whether he just wants Stuart Scott to shut the hell up.

What the fuck happened last night?”

Actually, maybe I don’t want to know. Some things are left for you and whoever/whatever the creator is to haggle about later, when that eventual day comes.

Dude. Dude,” fifteen seconds once again between each syllable. “That was wild. You don’t remember shit?”

This….can’t be good.

“No. Of course not. Fuck. Tell me. Just tell me now.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“I don’t remember shit. I remember being at the bar, and we were with Sara & Layla. Right? Yeah. Right. The waiter brought us our drinks. I know I didn’t really eat anything yesterday except for the popcorn they kept giving us, and maybe some jerky around noon. I should’ve ate more. I remember all four of us took those Irish car bombs. And then….nothing. Blank. Zip. Complete fucking blank, dude.”

Dude. After last night, they will never, EVER forget you. I’ve never seen anything like that. You went beast-mode, absolutely beast-mode, dude. Congratulations. Beast-MODE.”

“…What?”

And so the account of our story begins….JACKSON WILLIAMS & THE NIGHT OF THE IRISH CAR BOMBS!!!

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