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Rate This Contest Entry: Contest: June 30th, 2005 Author: Dino Kyriacos Arrival in Byron Bay came at a surprisingly rapid pace, considering it was expected to be a torturous, no leg-room filled, 12 hour bus journey through hell. The taste of having completed the Sydney-Byron journey it what seemed like record time was made even sweeter when one of our party of six received an SMS informing him that in the early hours of the morning back in England, his sister had just given birth to her first child. Much rejoicing occurred and of course another opportunity to celebrate presented itself. So that night, we headed into town and for once actually had a genuine reason to get pissed. The night began beautifully. Drinks galore, and everyone elated, no-one more so than Jim, the man who had just become an uncle. After an hour or so, we decided it was time to progress to the stronger sauce. Draining our river of beer, we made a manoeuvre and graduated to the shooters bar. We approached the shooters bar, all six of us standing adjacent to each other and no doubt looking like we’d be more suited participating in a prison line-up. So, on one end there was myself, “the man from uncle” Jim taking centre stage, and at the far end was the man that we aptly nicknamed “Chuckie”- not you understand because his real name is Charlie, but because whenever we go out on the booze, there’s an 80% chance that he will throw his guts up at some point during the night. If shooters were involved in the proceedings, it was 100% guaranteed. So tonight, what with mass celebration in motion, and more shots than were fired in both Gulf Wars combined, the chance of Chuckie living up to his name was as obvious an occurrence as a stripper at a stag night. The extremely attractive barmaid, sympathetic to our reason for celebration, was kind enough to provide us with a couple of additional free shots of our drink of choice- Black Sambuca. So for the next 10-15 minutes we were stationed there guzzling shooters, all which tasted like they could power a truck, congratulating Jim on Uncle Hood and ogling the superlative mammories provided by our sweetheart of a barmaid. Then the inevitable happened. That familiar sequence of words hurtled across the line of five of us- “It’s that time again boys!” to which we picked up our que and all turned towards the man who uttered this now famous quotation and in true football stadium-like banter chanted, “Chuckie, Chuckie, Chuckie!!!” Yes, it was Chuckie’s show now. Like a pedigree greyhound out of the traps, Chuckie sprinted across the bar, breaking the land speed record, towards the establishments toilets, with the echo of his name being chanted around the bar ringing through his ears. People from other tables joined in. So we carried on laughing, safe in the knowledge that Chuckie was no doubt taking care of business in the toilet. This particular bout of laughter was cut short however by a startled looking Chuckie, complete with thick saliva still hanging from the corner of his mouth, running through the bar back towards us. Before anyone of us could ask what the hell was wrong with him, Chuckie simply said, “Lads, we gotta go!!” Now, it appears to be a built in thing amongst groups of males, that whenever one of the party utters these words, they all instinctively evacuate the vicinity, no questions asked, like an organised group of bank robbers at the end of a ‘job’. So we did. All six of us clambered out the bar onto the busying streets. So after walking at pace for about 5 minutes, the inevitable question was asked. Chuckie then proceeded to explain the hilarious sequence of events:- After his umpteenth shot, Chuckie decided it was time for vomitus. As per scripted, he yelled his usual line and made headway for the toilets, ready to explode. He ran into the latrine, and charged into the first cubicle he saw, projectile vomiting immediately. Within peco-seconds of puking, he realised that the cubicle he’d chosen was actually occupied at the time, and he’d spewed his guts into the naked lap of the man who was until then, sat on the crapper peacefully taking a dump. Now he was sat in the most uncomfortable, embarrassing and compromising position of his life. Chuckie, once he’d realised what he’d done, was horrified and expected the man to be pretty pissed off and want to kick his head in- I mean of course he would!! So Chuckie decided to act, and in a moment of madness proceeded to smack the bog-bound bloke right in the face as hard as he could!! The dumper was now stunned- one minute he was happy defecating in private, the next was shocked to find some random lunatic stampede through his cubicle door like a herd of charging wilder beasts and chunder grey-tinged, warm, acidy black Sambuca all over him, and then smack him in the chops for no additional reason. Now he was mad! Chuckie, realising the error of his ways, did a roadrunner, leaving the poor coyote crapster sitting on the loo covered in vomit, bile and partly digested enchilada, nursing a bruised cheek. Yelling after Chuckie as he ran out that he was going to “Kill him!!!” increased Chuckie’s already world record speed of exodus, creating a sonic boom. That’s when he re-grouped with us… Needless to say, we were suffocated by laughter about the entire episode for the whole night, and then some. We simply went to another bar to carry on the festivities. What a way to remember that little East coastal Australian surfing town Byron Bay… Chuckie obviously continued to vomit throughout the evening, but in a cool, calculated and uninhabited manor and cubicle respectively. Overall, the night could only be described as a triumph. Oh and by the way, it was a 7 1/2lbs girl! people have rated it so far. is the current average. |
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