Congratulations on Drinking Yourself Into a Coma!

You’re a young man making his way across the country by moving from elite underground drinking circle to elite underground drinking circle. How underground, you might rightfully ask? So underground everyone in these fuckers thinks it’s still 1986 and all the chicks try to look like Olivia Newton John on H.

That’s what we thought.

Anyhow, you’ve built up quite a reputation over the last few months drinking in various absurd scenarios. You are uniquely well suited for this lifestyle, having grown up the child of a geologist and a senator, and even though you’ll only have been on “the scene” for a brief time you’ll be known as a fearsome contender.

This is how you’ll be seen when you arrive in Tulsa next Friday. You’ll come into town on a Greyhound Bus in frayed jeans and a plain brown t-shirt. You’ll be wearing sunglasses and a bored expression and you’ll tell your guide “Show me where to drink” and she’ll swoon.

The two of you will then bone in the awkward, hurried way of alcoholics, avoiding touching one another after all is done and showering separately. You’ll both be proud, but the experience will leave you each feeling dirty and it’ll throw off your whole vibe for the night.

Enter Mad-Dog Wilkinson. Mad-Dog is one of the biggest names in competitive drinking and before he went underground he was James Wilkinson, your daddy’s biggest challenger for his senate seat. Also, the girl you just slept with is his daughter (it’s a really small community, okay?)

Suffice it to say, Mad-Dog is going to want to see you crash and burn. He’s going to challenge you to a Tequila-Off on his home turf and you’ll be honor bound to accept. But after that weird sex and not really having eaten in the last few days since you refuse to eat Roy Rogers and Greyhounds refuse to stop anywhere else, it won’t end well.

You’ll be on the verge of vomiting after six hours of steady drinking, and Mad-Dog will barely be sweating profusely. Still, you’ll hold on and give it your all, swallowing down bile with each shot of sweet, sweet Mexican bliss.

After finishing your third entire bottle of tequila you’ll enter an alcoholic coma. The “doctor,” a man in a soiled tank-top with a stethoscope around his neck, will say that there’s no way to tell if you’ll ever wake up.

But Mad-Dog’s daughter will believe in you and she’ll stay by your side, force feeding you and making sure you get water for a whole two weeks. She’ll lose her job at the 80s themed strip club caring for you, but she won’t care. All she’ll care about is the safety of the man her daddy hates.

And eventually her efforts will pay off. One day when her money’s getting dangerously low your eyes will flutter open and you’ll ask her if this is another dream and she’ll kiss you on your vomit stained, gaping mouth.

Then you’ll bone again, and this time it won’t suck. So congratulations on drinking yourself into a coma. We normally wouldn’t say that series of words, but this time around its going to lead you to having dynamite sex with your rival’s daughter and restoring the honor of your family name down the road.