Blackout Drunk

By Christopher Dearman

If you can’t remember it...it never happened, right?

BLACKOUT DRUNK is an adult comedic look at a day-in-the-life of a jackass college student named Rod Valentine. Due to a typical night of binge drinking at an Animal House type university, he awakens on the bedroom floor, not remembering what the girl he brought home looks like...or what he did with her.

Follow the crazy exploits and screwball antics of this inebriated self-proclaimed Romeo as he gets into one escapade after another, while trying to put back the pieces of what took place the night before.

With a twist ending, and characters consisting of hot chicks, college students, stoners, gamers, poker players, bodybuilders, rednecks, giants, lesbians and even a midget — BLACKOUT DRUNK has something for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Dearman
• Release date: Jan 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9780984453917

Christopher Dearman

After spending his informative years in his birthplace of Elgin, IL - Christopher Dearman has called Carbondale, IL, Dundee, IL, Huntley, IL, Lake Beuna Vista, FL, and Lake Delton, WI "home" at certain points in his life...Graduating from St. Edwards High School (which is a story in and of itself), he took his talents to Carbondale, Illinois, where he spent five years (with a Disney internship mixed in) nurturing his creative muse (while trying not to kill too many brain cells).Spending the last decade working as a banker and underwriter, Dearman decided it was finally time to confess some of his amusing life stories for all to read in SANTA'S VILLAGE GONE WILD! and the upcoming CARBONDALE GONE WILD!.As creator of the the full-color graphic novel BLACKOUT DRUNK (which received an offer from Comedy Central to turn into a possible television series) and spin-off comic strip BLACKOUT SKUNK - Christopher Dearman continues to shun political correctness, while trying to entertain the masses with his precarious prose.Christopher Dearman or his creative endeavors have been featured in newspapers: USA Today, The Chicago Sun-Times, The Elgin Courier, The Daily Harald, The Northwest Harald & The MidWeek - among others. He has also been featured in TimeOut Chicago, Skunk and Park World magazines, as well as authored the books: SANTA'S VILLAGE GONE WILD!, BLACKOUT DRUNK The Novel, and the upcoming CARBONDALE GONE WILD!In 2011 he created the DELLS BUCKET LIST - which documents his quest for adventure and behind-the-scene looks at some of the many Wisconsin Dells area bars, restaurants, and attractions. His experiences are printed in a Wisconsin Dells Events newspaper column, as well as at: www.dellsbucketlist.comHe is also the the creator of a best-selling magic trick called BURNT! and Weekly World News art.Christopher Dearman can be reached for feature film, television, and literary pursuits at [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter One:

10:43AM

WHERE AM I?

Please let me be in my own apartment. After the countless nights punishing my liver with mass quantities of alcohol over the years, I’ve awoken in numerous places other than my own bed. I’ve found myself in various states of disarray on random floors, couches, lawns, and stairwells. In several closets, backseats, garages, and garden sheds. On top of park benches, picnic tables, rooftops, and dumpsters. Inside ditches, dugouts, bathtubs, and even a Porta Potty or two, which trust me — is not recommended. I once even ended up on that famous grassy knoll after downing tequila shots with a bunch of conspiracy theorists, but I refuse to acknowledge that publicly, as I swore I’d never step foot in that damn state full of cowboys which is Texas.

On the flip side, I have frequently awoken in actual beds, often with a hottie or two. I’ll admit, there may have been a few fatties and broke-ass bitches sprinkled throughout, but I like to think that the majority of them were at least an eight or above — a man has to have standards.

So, after yet another night of consuming mass quantities during my latest binge-drinking triumph, it might be wise to determine whether I actually made it back home or not. Since it feels like someone shoveled a shitload of sand in my eyes, I’m not even going to bother trying to open them. Taking mental inventory by patting myself down, I have my boxers on, but I’m not wearing any pants. I have no idea where my shoes are, but I’m still wearing at least one sock. I have on a shirt, but it smells like grass stains and may be missing a few buttons — that can’t be good. I know I’m on the floor, because my body currently feels like a fish dying on a slab of concrete.

I’d start checking around my surroundings if I could, but there’s no way my body could handle exerting that much energy at this particular moment. I don’t even think I could get up if Jessica Alba was naked in the room next to me, and was begging to have each and every one of her orifices filled with my man meat. I mean, I could probably muster up an attempt to roll myself towards her if she was indeed in the vicinity, but right now I feel like I was knocked out by a young Mike Tyson after pointing out that he talks in a little bitch voice. I’m not rolling my ass anywhere.

I start scraping away the gunk caked around my eyes in hopes of opening them long enough to see if I made it to my apartment or not. Cracking them the slightest bit, light explodes in, making my corneas feel like they’re being seared by a metal cow prong. Screw that shit. Since trying to get home at the moment would be a case in futility anyway, I slam my eyes shut, deciding to deal with this potential predicament later — much later.

I feel around for what I think is a boot to use as a pillow, curl up into the fetal position, and drift to sleep dreaming of shotguns blasting watermelons — back, and to the left.

Chapter Two:

12:06PM

COTTONMOUTH

Fuck I’m thirsty. It feels like all the water in my body has been sucked out, and my mouth is as dehydrated as an eighty-five year old crotch. I know this because of the time I was wasted at Floyds1 without a ride home, and the only female patron still standing was some shot-slinging grandmother saddled up near the end of the bar. I had to make

Floyds is a late night lounge that I seem to visit often, which happens to have the only four a.m. liquor license in town. With patrons similar to what you’d find at the Mos Eisley Cantina from Star Wars, if you dare go, you’re more than likely going to end up in some sort of scandalous scenario (whether it be getting into a fight, hurling chunks in the bathroom stall, or catching a bad case of the crabs from some random barfly). If my night ends at Floyds, you can bet that I won’t be remembering much of it the next day.

a choice: freeze my ass off trying to walk the two miles during a snowstorm in the dead of winter, or convince the old hag to give me a ride by offering one in return. Being that I prefer to keep my junk toasty at all times I choose the latter, and ended up having to let granny act like a cowgirl and mount up.

Turns out I could have used a shoehorn to get my whiskey-dick into that dry twat. It was like trying to fuck a sandbox with a Twizzler! That pussy was so parched — I swear I saw a cloud of dust spew out when she dropped the drawers. I didn’t dare take a closer look for fear of seeing mites.

About the only thing positive about the whole experience was the head I got after failing a few times to get my limp dick inside the broad. Once she removed the dentures, that dame sucked cock like she was trying to siphon my schlong for a Fountain of Youth elixir! It was only common courtesy to return the favor, and plow that prehistoric pussy once my shit finally rose for the occasion.

Stop reminiscing about that old cunt, Rod, and get your ass back to sleep! While it feels like a cat took a dump in my mouth, and it’s begging for liquid like Pookie did for crack rocks, I know my motor skills are not in any condition to function properly to get up now. I need sleep — and lots of it.

So, as I desperately try to do my best Rip Van Winkle impersonation, I visualize Indiana Jones pouring Holy Grail water into my mouth like he did to save Sean Connery in The Last Crusade. Content with the imaginary quenching of my thirst, I start dreaming of Bea Arthur from Golden Girls servicing that bartender Isaac from The Love Boat. Don’t ask me why.

Chapter Three:

1:18PM

REALLY?

A phone starts ringing. Really fuck’n loud.

Who the fuck in their right mind would be calling at this hour? My head’s pounding like a gong banged by a banshee, and throbs like it’s been hit with a damn crooked rock.2 If I’m at someone’s place other than my own, they better answer that phone with a quickness before I find it and ram it up their ass.

A crooked rock is what the legendary actor Christopher Atkins used to knock out some poor bastard in the classic movie Die Watching. I use the terms ‘legendary’ and ‘classic’ loosely, as not for the artistic merits of both, but for the utter ridiculousness each brings to the history of cinema. Other actor/movie combos in this category include: Jean-Claude Van Damme in Hard Target, David Caruso in Jade, and Jar Jar Binks in The Phantom Menace.

The phone finally stops ringing when an answering machine picks up. The sound of a toilet flush emitting from it is music to my ears, as I realize I’m in my own apartment.

I’m wiping my fuck’n ass . . . leave a message. — Beeeeeeep

Yeah, I rock an answering machine and not voicemail, but it’s great for times like these where I don’t have to do a damn thing to hear what the asshole calling me this early has to say.

Rod, get the fuck up, I know you’re there. Man, pick up the fuck’n phone . . . Rod?

Really Glen? Have you lost your fuck‘n mind? What the hell could be so damn important that he’d be compelled to pick up a phone and call a man in my condition? I imagine his horny ass wants to rehash last night’s bird-dogging activities, but couldn’t this wait until after I took my first shit of the day? Yeah, it would be nice to know some of the highlights, as I don’t remember a thing from last night, but any details he could provide to jog my memory can at least wait ‘til a decent hour.

I’m just thankful I’m not in fuck’n China right now. I know this may sound a bit extreme, but once after an all-night bender I found myself in a semi-truck full of fortune cookies with a chopstick-wielding geisha girl fondling my nuts. Because of this — leaving the country is never out of the realm of possibility.

So Glen, even though I’m in the comforts of my own home, I don’t dare get up to look for the phone. Fuck that. His ass will just have to wait.

Chapter Four:

1:19PM

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

The phone starts ringing again. I want to smash it with a fuck’n sledgehammer. I flail my arms around trying to find the cause of my agony. Please make it stop. I continue my search, knocking over what I imagine are a few old beer cans in the process. Mental note: Check those cans later for backwash to quench this abundant thirst.

After some more physical exertion I finally find the phone on the nightstand and answer it. I immediately wish I didn’t.

Hello?

Dude, what are you doing?

I’m trying to sleep, asshole. What time is it?

It’s one-twenty in the afternoon! So did you . . .

I look at the phone, wishing it were one of those old school ones that you could slam down and hang up on somebody’s ass with authority. Instead, I carefully tap the END button to click it off, which doesn’t bring quite the same satisfaction. The phone immediately starts ringing again. I answer: "What, motherfucker?"

Instantly I regret my decision to answer the phone in this manner, as I recognize my mother’s piercing shriek from the other end like a bitch slap. She’s screaming something to the effect that she’ll spank my ass with a wooden spoon ‘til it bleeds if I ever use that language again. I hastily retort with a really bad Mexican accent: No habla ingles señorita — you musto havo wrong el numero.

I quickly hang up, praying she