By staff writer Brent Stone
September 9, 2007
One fateful day at the beginning of sophomore year, a few friends and I received good news that our local purveyor of bliss-inducing substances had arrived back on campus and was prepared to end a week-long streak of painful mental clarity. Gentleman that he is, he came over to our place and sold us what we needed, and we got started quickly.
That was at 5:00 or so, and the next hour went about as you'd expect. By then, the munchies had kicked in, and someone pointed out that there was a welcome barbeque being held by our eating clubs (eating clubs are like regular dining halls that cost more money and serve shittier food but maintain a monopoly over your dorm so you can't eat anywhere else). We went down stairs as quickly and gracefully as stoners can and hit the barbeque.
One burger, two hot dogs, and three pounds of cole slaw later, I had finally managed to slake The Hunger. I started to go upstairs just as someone began to announce the welcome activity: a relay race. I wasn't altogether too excited, but the prospect of watching people make fools out of themselves in ridiculous events like tricycle riding seemed to be worth a few more minutes of my time, so I stood around with the rest of my stoned friends and waited for it to begin.
“I was still stoned with pounds of food in my stomach, almost unable to move.”
At that point, it was announced that there would be four teams—one comprised of dorm staff, one of eating club managers, and two of dorm students. The first two teams came forward, and since no one from the dorm was volunteering, they began coaxing others. Five minutes later, still sans volunteers, they decided to just pull people out of the crowd. Needless to say, my group of friends, in our currently easily-pressured state, were selected and told to divide ourselves up for the different events.
It was at this point that I realized just how awful this predicament was. I was still stoned with pounds of food in my stomach, almost unable to move. I was absolutely positive that I wasn't capable of contributing anything to anyone and stood there dazed.
Then fate intervened. My sweet, sweet guardian angel descended in the form of a little Asian girl who spoke the words that would change my life forever (or at least the next few hours).
“Who's going to eat the donuts?”
It took a few moments before the magnitude of that statement dawned on me, and my first though was, “Damnit, I'm so stoned my reflexes are dulled, and I'm not going to be able to raise my hand in time. Someone is going to volunteer first, and those donuts are as good as gone!”
But no one did. I couldn't figure out why five hands weren't in the air, but damned if I wasn't going to take advantage. I slowly raised my hand and declared, “I will eat the donuts.”
Someone pointed me to a table where three others were already seated. I sat down in front of my box of one dozen glistening Krispy Kreme donuts, divine in their perfection. Just as I began to feel that the universe had achieved some perfect harmony, my thoughts were interrupted by the girl across from me. She was a tiny thing—5'3″ or so—and not more than 115 pounds, so her words didn't intimidate me.
“I almost won this last year, you know.”
“Oh yeah? I just smoked a lot of pot.”
Everyone quieted down, and the contest began. My teammates raced through their events, and it wasn't long before someone ran up and tagged my hand, eliminating the last barrier between me and those plump little halos of fried dough.
I tore through the first six, but still managed to enjoy every last one. There were some people behind me who halfheartedly attempted to speed me up by telling me that I was falling behind one of my competitors—I might have believed them, but behind them I heard gasps and “Jesus – he's a machine.”
After six donuts, someone brought out a cup of water so I could dip the donuts to make them go down easier. It did make them a little less enjoyable, but by now everyone was circled around the table watching us eat, and I knew I couldn't disappoint my followers.
The confidence of the girl across from me quickly left her, as she quit with six donuts left when I was double fisting my last two. Those went down as easily as the rest, and everyone screamed and cheered on my victory. I stood up, face covered in glaze, and basked for just a moment.
Then my stomach realized what I'd just done to it and forced me to retreat. I've never been a vomiter, so I just went back and laid down in my room for awhile. The pain subsided slightly, but I was too lazy to rouse myself, so I just went to sleep for a few hours.
Eleven o'clock rolled around, and someone came to wake me up. There was some kind of party somewhere, so I threw on clothes and, still not feeling much better, walked across campus to a frat house. It was mostly just people from my old frosh dorm, so I grabbed a beer and made the usual “how was your summer” conversation.
I was on beer number two when I sat down next to a girl I knew from the year before and started catching up. We'd been talking for about ten minutes, when, out of nowhere, I started throwing up in my mouth. The only saving grace was that I didn’t actually vomit on her, but the sound of food coming back up is plenty repulsive by itself. She got up, and I bolted to the door and started throwing up off the balcony.
When I was done, I went back inside to look for her and apologize, but, unsurprisingly, she was gone. Unlike many of the girls I know, this one was particularly classy and probably disgusted, so I resigned myself to the fact that my substance-fueled antics had driven another perfectly lovely girl away.
One year later, she's the girlfriend.
Don't you just love a good romance?