>>> The Strumpet's Trumpet
By staff writer Allison Parks

January 14, 2007

I ate the roofies once. I'm guessing they were slipped into my O'Doul's by one of those devilish woman-hating PIC writers. I know how you long to sever my limbs and beat me with a dildo for having a period, growing beaver hair, and crafting fragrant fart clouds. Hmph!

Roofie slippers deserve to be anally raped with a cactus-y cattle prod, sober, in front of their parents, on the Jumbo-Tron in Times Square, then have their ballsacks inserted into the garbage disposal—also on the Jumbo-Tron.

My first memory of the experience was my mother calling in the morning, completely livid, asking, “What did you do last night? Are you on drugs?” I sat straight up in bed, thought about it for a second, and had absolutely no idea what I had done and why she was so angry. I did, however, fear her wrath and thought she might fly over on her broomstick and put a pox upon me. Furthermore, I felt like I had eaten a bag of horse turds, then the leather off my shoe, washed it all down with 10 gallons of gin, then gone back for urinal cake sprinkled with pubic hair for dessert. Basically, I felt like shit, my face was green, and my hair had somehow fashioned itself into dreadlocks during the night. Mother then proceeded to tell me some events of the night, all of which were all news to me. Several phone calls and eye witness accounts later, I would piece together the rest of the evening's events.

“My roofie-haze logic told me that Ashley had snuck into my room and vomited in my bed while I was asleep.”

Sarah, Ashley, and I went to the 8 Ball, one of Rohnert Park’s chic-est watering holes. On beer number two, I began wailing over the sight of a freshly blossomed spring flower. I told the ladies I had to go to the bathroom and compose myself, but instead I entered a cab full of strangers and insisted they drop me off first. Since my face was covered in mascara and I was foaming at the mouth, they kindheartedly took me home, probably for fear of catching rabies. The cab arrived at my apartment and I paid the driver approximately $80 for a $15 ride. The driver would later tell my overbearing mother that I got into my car and drove somewhere. I find that hard to believe, since operating a motor vehicle probably would have first required being able to hold saliva in my mouth.

I crawled up the stairs, scraped my way into the bathroom, and proceeded to projectile vomit everywhere. The Exorcist producers would have been impressed—I managed to coat every inch of the bathroom except for the toilet. All my dinner and hard-earned alcohol covered the floor, filled the bathtub and sink, and coated my body. Being in the most vile vomit-soaked state possible, I decided to take a bath. Unfortunately, by the time I started the water, I had lost interest and dragged myself to bed. The bathtub overflowed and poured into the apartment downstairs. The downstairs neighbor (who I'd never met) came upstairs (the door was open) waded through the vomit-water brew, and turned off the water. Then she telephoned the emergency maintenance man.

The maintenance man arrived and rung the doorbell. I woke up and answered the door in my underwear—and by “underwear” I mean, underpants only. No bra, titties flibbity-floppin’ around, completely covered in barf, and “mumbled incoherently” as he would later tell my mother. Apparently he also said he was “very concerned,” but did not bother to call anyone or clothe me. He left and I went back to sleep.

Soon after, Ashley arrived to find me wallowing in my bed, which by this time had become a lagoon of puke deep enough for me to sink into. She later told me that the stench nearly knocked her over.

When I spotted Ashley standing in the doorway I became consumed with rage. My roofie-haze logic told me that Ashley had snuck into my room and vomited in my bed while I was asleep. With what little energy I could muster, I began screaming at her for vomiting all over me and insisted she cleaned up the mess she had made. Ashley, the kind soul, cleaned me, my bathroom and all of my bedding, then put me back to sleep.

When the morning came, I awoke with the horse turd hangover. I puked green slime throughout the day, wondering how my body continued to find more things to eject. After a good night’s sleep I awoke recovered and an entire six pounds lighter.

After that heinous evening, since I had no memory of the maintenance man, I always blushed and quickly hurried past any tool-belt-wearing individual I saw in the apartment complex. Another post-roofie treat was the fact my apartment always smelled faintly of vomit. And although I was pleased with the six-pound weight loss, I will still dedicate my life to hunting down these roofie devils, pinning each one down, and searing their rectums with a molten corkscrew.