"What do you want to drink," Sam asked.

 "I don't care... whatever you want", I replied.

 “Give us the cheapest piece of shit tequila you got in the whole place,” my friend Sam says to the bartender.  The bartender, with an almost disgruntled look on his face abides.

 Now I’ve had some bad tasting liquor, but what we put ourselves through at this point bordered on unethical.  The taste was probably something along the lines of a mixture of gasoline and deer piss.

 Slamming the shot glass on the table, Sam barks "We'll have another," a statement that made me nauseous.

 "Are you sure," the barkeep said, "we clean the bars with this shit.”  Before I had a chance to decline, Sam had already spoken for us.

 “Ya know what?  Make it a double this time,”  He says. The barkeep poured us another and we shot it with salt and lime.  Shooters came one after the other. By our fifth one, the barkeep was sympathetic.

 "What do you say I upgrade you guys to Jose Cuervo, free of charge?  I can’t stand to watch you do this to yourselves."

 "You'll do that?" I asked.

 "Yes", he said. “Please, just don’t put yourselves through this.”  Naturally, by that time, he could have given us turpentine and we wouldn't have noticed the difference.

 Fast forward to the ride back. Our buddy Jeff, who drew the short straw to be the designated driver, is driving Sam’s car.  Sam is in the passenger seat, singing what might be vaguely similar to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin," if it was done by Helen Keller. I am crunched in the middle seat between two other friends. The ride back from Manayunk is a straight line-- right down City Line ave.

 Halfway home I start feeling the ramifications of the cheap tequila... the infamous burning of the tequila gurgles. Putting my head back to stay composed, I knew I was going to deliver a street pizza if we didn't get home soon. Suddenly, a bit of warm barf erupted from my esophagus and sat impatiently in my mouth.

 Looking around, assessing my nearest exit strategy, I immediately realized that Sam’s car is a hatchback and has no back windows that roll down. If I was going to dispose of my mouthful of vomit, I was going to have to lean over someone in the front of the car and puke out the window. With little to no other option, that's exactly what I did, except, instead of getting it out the window, I projectile vomited all over the car door and Jeff in his nice sports jacket as he was driving.

 "Aww man," Jeff says with disapproval as puke was dripping off his clothing. The car erupted with disgusted laughter.  Surprisingly, Jeff stayed cool as a cucumber even as the vomit made contact with his body. He stayed poised to the point where Sam, who was sitting next to Jeff, didn't even know I had puked all over him (in all honesty being loaded with that much tequila he probably wouldn’t have noticed if the car suddenly turned into a unicorn and carried us to candy mountain).

 We pulled up to my house. "It's all over the inside door handle," Jeff laughed. He was outside the car brushing off the aftermath of regurgitated pizza and whatever else I had for dinner that night.

  "I'm so sorry, man," I said, "We're going to laugh about this tomorrow, I swear."  The next day, I called Jeff and he told me that he had to take his sports jacket to two dry cleaners because the first one refused to clean it.  It cost $3.75 for it to be cleaned, which I wanted to pay but he just laughed and told me it was no problem.  Deep down we both knew Sam was to blame for the horrific event.

 Jeff, again, I am so sorry, but to tell you the truth... it makes one hell of a story ;-)