Here, for the APA, the first in what I'm willing to bet become a series of articles about my drinking experiences.  We're going by a basic ratings system:

*****: Rolling over onto Jessica Alba
****: Rolling over onto some hot sorority chick
***: Rolling over onto Sandra Bullock
**: Rolling over onto Mae Young
*: Rolling over onto a farm animal.  And a large man.  In the desert.
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"Dude, that is a pimping hat right there!"

BWD (Black While Drinking) I: The Daily Aztec Year-End Party
By W. Butch Rosser
Imbibed May 17th and 18th, 2001

It's 10:00 p.m.  I am still not really sober.  That can mean only one thing.

It's time for some breakdancing.

And I'm a lot better than I usually am, complete with shoulder rolling, a break into the male model pose followed by the first time I actually complete a kip-up in the past three years.  This is my night.

Oh, the madness.  Anyway, the hype started a couple of weeks ago, and with final almost coming down on my head, I need relief. And how does any college kid spell relief?  P-A-R-T-Y.  Or B-O-O-Z-E to be exact.  Lesse here.  The place was Etta's, which was a bar and a karoake stage.  Get me around either and I'm trouble--get me around both?  Whoo boy.

So, I start off double-fisting Heinies, my usual beer of choice.  I'm so proud to be in the sports section, as everyone has on some form of a pimping hat on.  Mine, of course, is the center of attention, so I delve a little bit into the family legacy of my second-generation pimping hat.  For our departing and attractive editor-in-chief, I belt out "Sexual Healing".  I am, in all humbleness, the best male singer of the evening.  Much love, more beer.  Have a trifecta of cherry bombs, since they're 3 for a buck.

MISTAKE!

151 soaked cherries begin to addle my mind.  I chase them away with a screwdriver, another Heine (up to 4) and a Corona.  This is my cue to sing once again, this time "Californication".  Someone sings "Thriller" and I whip out the Scary Monster.  The dancing Scary Monster, not the...anywho, someone has managed to bring attractive girls to the party.  I swing dance with a couple, and decide what I need is some booze.   Two margaritas and another Heinie later, it's time for some Sisqo.  I get freaked by the girls and pull off a textbook Vegas lounge-singer slide across the floor, scuffing my khakis but making me look damn cool in the process.  The party continues, and I just start drinking what's available, dancing without a care. "Let's Stay Together" comes in about 1:47 and I take the editor-in-chief for a little slow dancing.  "We Are Family" closes out the night and the bar at 2.

In the immortal words of Shawn Wayans, "But wait!  There's more!"

Back to a hotel, where I drink two more Heinies and fall asleep/pass out.  This would lead to an interesting morning, but I managed to survive.

Damage Assesment:
OK, a star for every chick freaking me.  Deduct half from each since none of them hooked up with me.  Star for the editor-in-chief giving me some kisses and rocking my hat.  Star for booze being only a buck.  Star for the two crazy guys who did "Girl You Know It's True" and busted out the New Kids dance.  Star for the sports section guys all wearing pimping hats.  Huh, considering I didn't blow chunks, we've got a classic!

*****
 
 

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Another bottle to the brain as the Beasties would say. Of course, don't drink and drive, you bastards.  We're going by a basic ratings system:
*****: David Letterman
****: Jon Stewart
***: Post-Andy Conan O' Brien
**: Charlie Rose
*: Jay Leno
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"Who's down wit OPP?!  EVERY LAST HOMIE!!!!"

BWD(Black While Drinking) II: UCSD's The Koala Sloshball 2001
By W. Butch Rosser
Imbibed May 19th and 20th, 2001

O.K., here's what happened.  The motherfucker wouldn't stop arguing the call.  His boy was fucking out, out like polyester.  I said to myself, "Self!  If he won't shut up, I will SHUT HIM UP."

So I began charging--he didn't move.  I kept getting closer and there he stood.  Chants of "Goldberg" rang out in my ears as I launched myself and dropped the boom.

"Ugnghannnnhhh!" Shoulder right in the damn gut.  Textbook, my friends.  Rhyno would've encouraged my vyolence fucking vyolence as I began to half-punch the guy.  Another bench-clearing brawl was on.  And we won again.

See, the final score said the Koala lost to those punk-ass bitches at the Guardian 27-26 in extra innings (8), but we outdrank them and we sure as hell outfought them all day long.  Matter of fact, yours truly got in 13--7 with the same four-eyed goof I beat down last year.  In fact, HE started this in the first inning.

He gave me the finger, and shit was on.  I believe my exact words were "You wanna dance?" although it may've been "rumble".  And I beat him like I owned him, the same way I did all day.  I ran around dropping elbows on those trying to hurt my squad, and to further make me look bad-ass, I got the chokeout version of the Crossface on a guy, saved only by two of his friends and the guy batting behind me yelling out "That guy's my weed supplier!  Get off him!"  I have since donated my shirt to the Koala, and not just because the day's events made it uncleanable.

I was wearing a white Mark McGwire shirt jersey.  It is not that way now.  It's riddled with grass stains from rolling around during brawls and getting in cheap punches to kidneys, from being dropped on my head.  It's full of the dirt I had the time I dove for a catch, and the continual brawling at second base.  And home.  And on the mound.  There's bloodstains on it, and since they're not mine, I'm taking that as a sign that I really really jacked some fool up.  Keep in mind, these stains are covering both sides and the inside AND outside of the shirt.

Oh, and the Boozeade stains.

Boozeade?   Glad you asked!  Take a massive jug of Gatorade, pour out some stuff, pour in some alcohol--which this year was some fermented sugar from Mexico we got like a five-gallon jug for 4 bucks back in spring break.  The first time I drank it, it tasted like ass, like watered-down cough syrup.   After a few more chugs (say 7), I came to the conclusion this was good stuff.

Afterwards, there was a short little bonfire/BBQ in which we played old school Def Jam at high levels and recalled vividly the fights over some nice pepper steaks & cheeseburgers.  Then there was a party.

It was a theme party, which means we had some interesting costumes going on.  I proceeded to have a few Dos Equis and freaked girls pretty much all night.  There were about 140 people crammed into the house, which made things sticky and sweaty on the floor.  But still, dancing and talking was had--except when I paused for my half-minute kegstand.  Anyway, thanks to Christina for being my accountant while I pimped, and to Sara and Ginger for, well, being Sara and Ginger.  And Amy for a good talk we had during the underrated (sic) "Point Blank" until about 4 when she left.

And another one goes into the annals!

Damage Assessment:
Lesse...

Boozeade + Violence=Fun
More Boozeade + More Violence= More Fun
Steaks & Burgers + More Fun + Getting Freak On= Swanktitude.

You know, I don't get drunk often, but I try to make it count.   Bust out the ol' cinco estrellas again:

*****

Next installment of DWB: Who knows?   Bet it'll be soon, though!

Until then, from me to you, a little reminder: alcohol is good.

(3zy's note: these were originally posted all in one clump...don't ask me why...)