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A few weeks ago, the Otis family went down to Florida for my BIL’s wedding. We stayed at a hotel on the beach; it’s one of those hotels where every room is oceanfront, and the back of the hotel is basically an open outdoor walkway along each floor. 

The day before the wedding we have an afternoon barbecue and drink beer all day, and everyone is moderately trashed. That night we and the wedding party head back to the hotel and all go out to a big bar next door.  Mrs. O goes back to the room after a drink or two to relieve the babysitter; Otis stays behind at the bar to let off some steam with my FIL and BILs and the rest of the crew, and goes on an old school Otis run, forcing shot upon shot on everyone within reach, each one nastier than the next (“Hey you, what’s your favorite shot? liquid cocaine??  Sounds great!  Bartender, a dozen of those!”). We drank all the liquor. All of it.  Days later the wedding party continued to report that “Uncle Otis” was the MVP of wedding weekend; my FIL said he had heard about this “Otis” alter ego but had never seen it before, and thought it was fantastic. 

Otis makes his usual irish exit at some point and stumbles back blind drunk to the hotel. The kids are sharing the beds, and me and Mrs. O are sharing the fold out sofa bed. Mrs O is out cold, and I quietly slip in next to her and pass out. 

About an hour later Otis wakes up and needs to take a leak. Still trashed, in my underwear, and without my contacts in, I stumble towards the bathroom, step in, and close the door behind me. Except it turns out that instead of walking through the door to the bathroom, I walked through the door to outside—and the door auto locks behind you. So there I stand in the middle of the night, near naked and blind drunk, outside a hotel somewhere in Florida. 

I sobered up just enough to realize I couldn’t knock too loud or I would wake the baby and girls. So I start by knocking very softly, seeking that sweet spot that is just loud enough to wake the missus but not the kids. There was a lot of trial and error in this as I continued to ratchet up the volume of knocking every few minutes for what must have been a half hour, all the whole hoping a cop or other stranger doesn’t find me first. 

Finally the door opens and Mrs. O is standing there. The last she saw me was at the bar, and there I stand drink in my underwear, so her reaction was “wtf happened to your clothes?”  I apparently gave some explanation that made no sense and we went to bed.

The next morning I woke with the worst hangover I’ve had in maybe two decades.  My MIL and her mother came by to help my watch the kids because everyone knew what kind of shape I was in.  A few hours later I threw up so violently that I broke a bunch of blood vessels around my eyes. Had to show up to be in the wedding party, and there I stood a grown man in his 40s, married, and a father of three, looking like Rocky Racoon on the bad end of a bar fight.  

Haven’t had a drink since. 

 
Otis said:
Rate this story:

A few weeks ago, the Otis family went down to Florida for my BIL’s wedding. We stayed at a hotel on the beach; it’s one of those hotels where every room is oceanfront, and the back of the hotel is basically an open outdoor walkway along each floor. 

The day before the wedding we have an afternoon barbecue and drink beer all day, and everyone is moderately trashed. That night we and the wedding party head back to the hotel and all go out to a big bar next door.  Mrs. O goes back to the room after a drink or two to relieve the babysitter; Otis stays behind at the bar to let off some steam with my FIL and BILs and the rest of the crew, and goes on an old school Otis run, forcing shot upon shot on everyone within reach, each one nastier than the next (“Hey you, what’s your favorite shot? liquid cocaine??  Sounds great!  Bartender, a dozen of those!”). We drank all the liquor. All of it.  Days later the wedding party continued to report that “Uncle Otis” was the MVP of wedding weekend; my FIL said he had heard about this “Otis” alter ego but had never seen it before, and thought it was fantastic. 

Otis makes his usual irish exit at some point and stumbles back blind drunk to the hotel. The kids are sharing the beds, and me and Mrs. O are sharing the fold out sofa bed. Mrs O is out cold, and I quietly slip in next to her and pass out. 

About an hour later Otis wakes up and needs to take a leak. Still trashed, in my underwear, and without my contacts in, I stumble towards the bathroom, step in, and close the door behind me. Except it turns out that instead of walking through the door to the bathroom, I walked through the door to outside—and the door auto locks behind you. So there I stand in the middle of the night, near naked and blind drunk, outside a hotel somewhere in Florida. 

I sobered up just enough to realize I couldn’t knock too loud or I would wake the baby and girls. So I start by knocking very softly, seeking that sweet spot that is just loud enough to wake the missus but not the kids. There was a lot of trial and error in this as I continued to ratchet up the volume of knocking every few minutes for what must have been a half hour, all the whole hoping a cop or other stranger doesn’t find me first. 

Finally the door opens and Mrs. O is standing there. The last she saw me was at the bar, and there I stand drink in my underwear, so her reaction was “wtf happened to your clothes?”  I apparently gave some explanation that made no sense and we went to bed.

The next morning I woke with the worst hangover I’ve had in maybe two decades.  My MIL and her mother came by to help my watch the kids because everyone knew what kind of shape I was in.  A few hours later I threw up so violently that I broke a bunch of blood vessels around my eyes. Had to show up to be in the wedding party, and there I stood a grown man in his 40s, married, and a father of three, looking like Rocky Racoon on the bad end of a bar fight.  

Haven’t had a drink since. 
Click to expand...
Time to get back on that horse GB

 
Otis said:
Rate this story:

A few weeks ago, the Otis family went down to Florida for my BIL’s wedding. We stayed at a hotel on the beach; it’s one of those hotels where every room is oceanfront, and the back of the hotel is basically an open outdoor walkway along each floor. 

The day before the wedding we have an afternoon barbecue and drink beer all day, and everyone is moderately trashed. That night we and the wedding party head back to the hotel and all go out to a big bar next door.  Mrs. O goes back to the room after a drink or two to relieve the babysitter; Otis stays behind at the bar to let off some steam with my FIL and BILs and the rest of the crew, and goes on an old school Otis run, forcing shot upon shot on everyone within reach, each one nastier than the next (“Hey you, what’s your favorite shot? liquid cocaine??  Sounds great!  Bartender, a dozen of those!”). We drank all the liquor. All of it.  Days later the wedding party continued to report that “Uncle Otis” was the MVP of wedding weekend; my FIL said he had heard about this “Otis” alter ego but had never seen it before, and thought it was fantastic. 

Otis makes his usual irish exit at some point and stumbles back blind drunk to the hotel. The kids are sharing the beds, and me and Mrs. O are sharing the fold out sofa bed. Mrs O is out cold, and I quietly slip in next to her and pass out. 

About an hour later Otis wakes up and needs to take a leak. Still trashed, in my underwear, and without my contacts in, I stumble towards the bathroom, step in, and close the door behind me. Except it turns out that instead of walking through the door to the bathroom, I walked through the door to outside—and the door auto locks behind you. So there I stand in the middle of the night, near naked and blind drunk, outside a hotel somewhere in Florida. 

I sobered up just enough to realize I couldn’t knock too loud or I would wake the baby and girls. So I start by knocking very softly, seeking that sweet spot that is just loud enough to wake the missus but not the kids. There was a lot of trial and error in this as I continued to ratchet up the volume of knocking every few minutes for what must have been a half hour, all the whole hoping a cop or other stranger doesn’t find me first. 

Finally the door opens and Mrs. O is standing there. The last she saw me was at the bar, and there I stand drink in my underwear, so her reaction was “wtf happened to your clothes?”  I apparently gave some explanation that made no sense and we went to bed.

The next morning I woke with the worst hangover I’ve had in maybe two decades.  My MIL and her mother came by to help my watch the kids because everyone knew what kind of shape I was in.  A few hours later I threw up so violently that I broke a bunch of blood vessels around my eyes. Had to show up to be in the wedding party, and there I stood a grown man in his 40s, married, and a father of three, looking like Rocky Racoon on the bad end of a bar fight.  

Haven’t had a drink since. 
Click to expand...
7

 
the best thing about denim skirts is that when your lady was done with them you could cut them up and use them for rags in the garage and they lasted like five times longer than your average old tighty whitey rags for moppin up power steering fluid and stuff take that to the bank bromigos 

 
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