In college, I sang in an a capella group called VoiceMale (I didn't name it, but would have been happy to name it that, were it up to me), and we went on tour down the east coast of this country but also up to Montreal, because, damn it, people wanted to see strippers with their eyes and beers with their mouths, and Canada's drinking age was lower than ours, so score!
The score after a trip to one bar and two strip clubs was as follows--
Beers: 14, Shots: 2, Time Asleep: unknown, due to being asleep.
(That's what happens when an a capella group sings in a bar and gets pitchers sent over to them by people who love the singing or are trying to bribe us to stop, and you add in the fact that only a couple of the guys in the group actually drank to begin with.)
I woke up from my nap that you might call "having passed out" if you were a stickler for that sort of thing, I eliminated the problem from my body from whence it came, and I went back to our hotel or wherever we were staying, I don't remember, I was drunk. For the very first time, did I mention? That's what this story is about.
Gin and Tonic.
Virgin and Tonic.
Then when I woke up the next day, I had the biggest hangover. It was probably the worst pain I'd ever felt, and my parents got divorced when I was a kid. (But they didn't hit me in the head with the power of that many drinks.) Also I figured they were better off living the lives they wanted to lead. No worries.
Point is, it was no good, so I promised no one in particular (maybe myself?) that I'd never drink that much again. And I didn't. Until the next time. A capella!
(See also Hungovery.)