"What's the Worst Green Thing You've Ever Had?"

Last night on the way home, one of the radio stations was having people call in and describe the worse green thing they'd ever had - in honor of St. Patty's day of course. (I was channel hopping over to AM to hear some songs and surfed onto the station (obviously FM since they weren't playing music) in time to hear the premise.)

This stirred a memory that I doubt they'd allow onto the air, so I didn't call. However, for your enjoyment, here's the story of the worse green thing I ever had.

I was never one for one-night stands, though still managed to have a few - almost always after losing all sense and proportion due to being wasted. In this case, I was getting ready to head home as the wedding reception post party had wound almost all the way down, and people had partnered off or passed out - or, comically, both. The bride and groom had rented half a floor of rooms, and I wandered from a room that had collapsed into a grope-fest into the remaining noisy party to grab a cold one for the road. Beer in hand, I parked in one of the few places left on the floor. This girl next to me immediately started chatting me up. (Which should have been my first clue as to her motives. Experience has taught me that women will not usually initiate conversation with a male stranger unless they want something - the obvious exception being if he's a major hunksicle, which I am not.)

After about ten minutes of chatter, she hauls off and plants one on me. Just wham, out of the blue, no warning, no gleam in the eye ahead of time, just a full one-and-a-half gainer with no spotter into my face. Had there been flailing tongue involved, I certainly would have selected another spot to enjoy the final brew of the evening, but she had some talent, which is rare enough to have given me pause. (My wife and I estimate that well over half the population is not very good at kissing.) Anyway, after a little inappropriate public display of affection, someone muttered, "get a room," to which she immediately purred, "yeah, let's." Not many unattached men in their early twenties can turn down such an easy conquest, especially while wearing beer goggles.

Off we went to find a room. Not that anyone's proud of this, but people who were in the thralls of lust that weddings tend to evoke* were pairing off in some of the rooms, one couple to each bed, which was clearly what the betrothed had expected to happen and thus provided accommodations to keep all the horny drunks off the road. An unoccupied room was not to be had, so we claimed the empty bed in a room that already contained a couple in the throws thereof on the other bed, who mumbled without unlocking lips their semi-oblivious consent to our crashing there. To say the least, it's a little disconcerting to be doing the deed in the room with another couple doing the same, unless that's what you're into, of course. I am not, even though the events of this story include that very occurrence. But, with the dual shields of booze and the other couple's intense focus on each other, into the breech we leapt, lads.

*Hint for you young single men out there: Weddings are THE place to score. The whole event just does something to a portion of the female contingent; I've witnessed it myownself many times. As a bonus, the liquor is usually provided. (And I'm sure Jesus will bring up my circulation of that little factoid if I make it to the big pre-heaven life review.)

Let me remind you, dear reader, that while you are sitting there reading this in what I assume is relative sobriety, neither of us had the benefit of clear minds, or else I would have noticed the other warning flags going up in addition to the fact that some girl had jumped me moments after met. Yes, I should have been thinking of possible mitigating factors. (Btw, this was before the specter of AIDs. The herpes scare hadn't started yet. Nor had the outrageousness of abdicating responsibility for one's actions while wasted and charging a consenting partner with rape become even a possibility on the legal radar. I had inquired about BC though, and she said she was safe.) She was bombed, my friends, way more bombed than I had the ability to discern, being in the cups myself. So, what happened next you've probably seen a mile off, where I was completely surprised.

Let us join the mash session already in progress:

Her:
"Uuuuh, <---- the internationally recognized sound of passion
uhh,
uuuuuuh,
HURRRGH!" <---- the internationally recognized sound of an impending power hurl

She leapt out from beneath me (had there been Olympic judges present, she certainly would've averaged a 9.7 score for the maneuver) dashed to the can, slammed the door, and proceeded to ralph her brains out. The couple in the next bed had stopped what they were doing and directly after the crushing silence was broken by my paramour's first resonant retch, they burst into guffaws, replete with snorts.

For years after that, I was trailed at parties with the mocking reenactment of:
"Uuuuh, uhh, uuuuuuh, HURRGH!" Particularly if I were having luck at successfully chatting up a young lady. I would say that my buddies were cruel in haunting me with that particular episode in my patchy love life, but sober reflection always leaves me with a good shot of "what the hell was I thinking?" and so I feel I deserved the ugly reminder. It helped to keep me honest and more aware of what I might be getting into, so to speak, and as proof I can say this is the most tawdry stain on my love life to date, as it will remain.

And it serves as my punch line to "what's the worse green thing you've ever had?": A very green girl whom I should have stayed away from had I managed to produce one clear, prudent thought in my bigger head. I take a tiny bit of refuge in the fact that it's at least a better answer to the query than "too much St. Patty's day beer."

Maybe I should have called the station...