In my younger days, I was somewhat of a slacker. I much preferred drinking beer, getting high, and playing videogames to productive things like going to a real job. Because of this, I had to have roommates. They were fun to hang out with, but sometimes could be a real pain in the ass.
One particular set of roommates used to make themselves annoying by stealing my beer. I was the only one in the house with a job at all – not a real job, mind you, just running lights at a concert venue. The problem was, while I was at work, my bastard roommates would take my 40s from the refrigerator, and drink them. Corner either of them and ask them who did it, they’d always blame the other. Get them in the same room and ask them who did it, they’d blame some mysterious house-guest who may or may not have actually ever been there.
Now, I had limited options. The electric in my room was already so taxed by computer equipment that I couldn’t put in my own fridge, and I worked until late into the night, well after they stopped selling beer. I tried buying my beer on the way to work, but this meant it would sit in the car all day and I had to drink warm beer.
If you’ve ever had to drink warm malt liquor, you know how much it resembles piss. Skunky, bitter, it’s just awful – that’s some hobo shit right there. I was so enraged by having to drink piss-warm beer that I hatched a plan. I decided that if I had to drink piss-warm beer, then my roommates would have to drink pissy beer as well.
That’s when I started refilling 40 ounce beer bottles. I’d drink about 20 ounces, and piss it full again. Then I’d put them in the refrigerator, and wait. I was sure that my roommates would take one drink and realize they were drinking piss, and never steal my beer again. However, the next day the beer was gone, and no-one seemed to have noticed that they were drinking beer that had been watered down with human excrement.
This went on for days, then weeks, then months. Every day I’d buy 4 40s on my way to work. Every night I’d drink between 1/2 and 3/4 of each of them and fill them back up with piss. Every evening while I was at work, my lame-ass roommates would drink them. It would have continued for years until one fateful day…
My friend D came in to visit from Colorado, and brought a shitload of psilocybin mushrooms. I happened to be off from work that day, so he and I hung out eating mushrooms, drinking beer, playing playstation games and generally having a grand old time. Eventually he noticed me going into the bathroom with half-empty 40 bottles and coming back out with full bottles, and I had to explain myself.
D thought the whole piss-beer thing was the most hilarious thing he’d ever heard, so he did the same. We spent that evening, high on mushrooms, drinking 40s, pissing them full again, and putting them in the fridge downstairs.
The next day, I got up and went to work as usual. It was a pretty standard day, I don’t remember much about it, but it was work, so I’m pretty sure it sucked. It wasn’t until I arrived home that evening, and found the front door wide open that I began to suspect something was wrong.
As I entered the living room, I noticed all of the furniture had been overturned. There was vomit…everywhere. I could hear someone quietly weeping under the overturned couch. One of my roommates was standing on the mantle of the fireplace, wearing a football helmet and nothing else – not a good look for him.
“Get out of the lava!” he screamed, eyes like pools of blackness. He looked like one of those hokey vampires in a b-movie, only all beardy, scrawny, and naked.
Now, I don’t know about you, but when I’m confronted by a naked man screaming about lava, the only possible course of action in my mind is to leave, as quickly as possible. So I did – I figured they’d gotten ahold of some bad acid or something and I’d camp out on one of my friends’ couches until it all blew over. Then I noticed the bottles. All around the living room were my beer bottles from the previous night’s piss-fest, some empty, some half-empty, some spilled on the floor.
Laughing, I gathered up the bottles, deposited them in the garbage, emptied the ones from the fridge, locked the front door, and left.
That day I learned two things. First, D and I have a super-human tolerance for hallucinogens, having partaken of them heavily since our early teenage years. Second, the psychoactive component of mushrooms is passed through the body completely unchanged. So my roommates had gotten the mushroom trip of 10 lifetimes by drinking my piss-40s.
After that, I figured I’d made my point. And my roommates – they came down, eventually – never did steal my beer again.