Root Beer Kegger: The Beer was Fake, the Breathalysers were real.

This past weekend undoubtedly saw its share of keg parties in residential neighborhoods throughout North America. Someone's parents nip off to somewhere tropical to forget for one all-inclusive week the burdens of home, and return to wrecked furniture, raised insurance premiums and a permanently shaken faith in young squire Johnny's sense of responsibility.

On any other day, we'd be chronicling the unholy aftermath of one of those parties (which mostly ends up on Facebook), or at least lending our support to the move to see drinking ages lowered and thus spare Ma Suburbs from having to discover a pile of forgotten a few months after the last foam has been sucked out of a keg.

Today, however, we'd like to salute the actions of some Wisconsin teens (not the ones pictured here, who would indeed be arriving on a very short bus indeed if still attending high school at their ages) who threw a keg party on Saturday -- one in which 1919 Classic American Draft Root Beer was on tap. Before your midday cocktail shoots out your nose at the very thought that we would pay tribute to a non-alcoholic event (which, with the possible exception of forced parole hearings one day, we will always do our best to avoid), let us make a couple of things clear. First, this was not a gathering of the school's society for the ostracized and the "Obvious Targets for Bullying" gang, nor did this have anything to do with some sort of youthful religious-based jamboree where kids get together and don't do all the fun things proscribed in their holy book. We're saluting the root-beer kegger as it was a prank staged at the expense of the local constabulary and school officials.

The kids were miffed that fellow students had been suspended from sports because pictures had turned up showing them drinking out of red cups. Such cups are the stuff of booze parties as anyone who has ever seen an advertisement for Beer Pong will know (FYI: "Bing Bong Beer Pong" official brass has made it known that said cups are not included with the individual units). The story doesn't actually say that the school was wrong in assuming that this first group of kids was drinking beer out of these cups -- they probably were -- but regardless, the kids came up with a creative way to stick it to 'em and also keeps the cops busy so the college kids can punch one another up without any police hassle.

They gathered together in large number, cranked the tunes and parked their cars in the neighborhood in a way that would send a soccer mom peeping out her window into a frenzy, and indeed it did -- shortly thereafter police were summoned and had every reason to believe that fun of an underaged boozing variety was taking place. They went in the house, noticed that a good time was being had and quite reasonably assumed that everybody was plastered. After giving breath tests to 90 (that's right -- the first 67, say, couldn't have counted as a representative sample) they found that nobody at the party was even the slightest bit drunk, but rather that they were all coasting on that natural high one gets with pissing off the fuzz.

We would indeed have joined that, not enough to stand a night full of root beer -- that red-headed stepchild of American soft drinks that tellingly enjoyed its hey-day during the prohibition era (telling, because people without access to speakeasies back then were all mad).

Here, for extra credit, is the video these students produced detailing their root-beer escapade:



And here is why root beer has about 3% of the total soft-drink market and will never do better than that:

Drunk bank robbery busted minutes later

This morning, rather than remark on last night's goings on, Oscar-wise and the obviously amazing adhesive properties of the primer used to affix John Travolta's hair to his bald noggin, or the nearly comatose presenter Harrison Ford (indistinguishable from the best performances he's ever given, minus the leather vests), we decided to focus on 'Best Drunk Performance During Commission of a Federal Felony', courtesy of a Chicago bank robber. [Editor's Note: Of course, in the event any of our seat filler insiders aren't shaken down and tossed out onto Hollywood Blvd and beaten, we'll give you updates on whichever drunken celebrity does something worthy of noting here.]

In the Shark Book, we chronicled a blotto bank heist that ended inauspiciously when the 'robbin' hood' headed to the nearest bar (and we're not speaking euphemistically here as it was two blocks over) and tried to buy rounds with his security ink-stained loot.

A Windy City brigand, following in that guy's shuffling foot-steps, made the unorthodox move of showing his identification prior to tipping off the teller that he was half in the bag, while instructing them to fill it.

“I’m drunk, lower the money, give me $2,000 right now in one hundred dollar bills. Right now, I don’t want to hurt anyone!” he drawled, reaching over and attempting to grab loot from the drawer.

A witness directed Chicago's finest to a restaurant one and a half blocks from the bank, where they found a man who fit the description of the robber just 15 minutes after the robbery.

Apparently, in the interceding 14 minutes, he had outstanding debts to pay as a bank audit reported $213 missing, and $18 was found on the suspect at the time of his arrest.

Drunk Challenges Police Car to a Fight -- and the smart money is not on the boozer

Blackouts are nature’s way of sparing drunks from having to forever remember the shameful acts they may have committed whilst in liquor’s clutches. (Though the legend-like feats of the worst among them have been collected for posterity in our book, “The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death: and other true tales of drunken debauchery). Also, in some places simply telling an arresting officer that you were so blotto you can’t remember a single detail of the crime you are alleged to have committed will result in you being set free with a sandwich and the best wishes of the city… or so we’ve heard.

A 25-year-old man in Lincolnshire England was arrested recently for a crime he committed while blackout drunk that one would have assumed involved the consumption of hallucinogenic drugs rather than alcohol – challenging a police car to a fight.

The man is said to have finished a night’s boozing by hopping up on the roof of a marked police car and shouting “come on then”, while swinging punches. The man’s motivation for singling out a police car for this aggression were not reported, though it appears not to have been motivated by frustrations over skyrocketing oil prices, global warming or a traumatic childhood memory involving one of the Herbie The Love Bug films.

The police car did not respond to being called out, but its occupants did. The man was arrested and later plead guilty to having caused criminal damage to the police car. After he sobered up and was asked about the incident, the man claimed to have no memory of it, though he added in an honest, if harsh, appraisal of his own character that “It sounds like something I would do.”

Drunk Driver Calls 911 on Self: Hello Wisconsin!

As we've noted in previous posts, to the point of smacking our heads repeatedly against the steering wheel in frustration, we unequivocally, in no way whatsoever endorse impaired driving---our Top Ten Greatest Drinking & Driving Anthems of All Time referring solely to the soundtrack of a drunken, Grand Theft Auto game in the confines of one's moldy basement.

That being said, we've taken great pleasure here in pointing out the folly of those who do get behind the wheel blotto and while this may not garner any favor with those who fly red ribbons from their antennae, we'd be hypocrites if we claimed otherwise---as authors of a sizable chapter in our book entitled, Contents May Shift in Transit: Drunk and on the Move.

In a subsection of the above, Chariots of Firewater no less, we noted a drunk driver in Germany who got sidetracked with a flat, and in a breach of male etiquette dictating that you change your own damn tire drunk or otherwise, decided to phone for help. In his compromised state, he unwittingly called police instead of roadside assistance, presumably missing the 'Hello---police', on the other end and then blurting out that a mechanic should be dispatched post-haste as he was very drunk and things would turn ugly for him if the cops arrived. Which they did.

In Wisconsin, a woman decided to call 911 dispatch while driving home drunk from a local watering hole. The following is a transcript of the conversation.

Caller: I just want to know if somebody can follow me home because somebody seems to think I can't drive home straight.

911 Operator: OK, why is that?

Caller: He seems to think I am too intoxicated to drive.

911 Operator: OK, and so you called 911, or he called 911?

Caller: Well, he wanted me to call 911 because he thinks I'm too drunk to drive.

The 'he' in this case was a boyfriend who'd consumed a 12-pack by himself, yet still had the wherewithal to point out the driver, who'd knocked back 6, should not be getting behind the wheel (and yet no foresight or judgment whatsoever to pass up a ride home).

The woman failed the Breathalyzer and was ticketed in her own garage, but not before earning the unlikely kudos from a county sheriff (possibly, a distant relation):

"I think a judge will look at her and say, 'You know what? You stepped up to the plate. You did the right thing. I think it's commendable."

Drunk graffiti artist all washed up... and The Joker's Wild Life: Heath Ledger

[From the recently spit-shined, mahogany editor's desk:


This morning, we figured we'd steer clear of commenting on the early demise of the talented Heath Ledger as revelling in the morbid is more the province of the folks over at The Darwin Awards. So, we figured we'd focus on a different Australian-themed story, a 'near death' one in this case.



Hip hop is universal and responsible for much of the pop culture we do our best to shield our eyes from on a daily basis, ideally, with a ball cap pulled way down and a hoodie.

It's given us, among other things: over-sized duds for fat and non-fat alike, athletic footwear thrown onto overhead wires to mark drug territory (a stern warning against crack dealers bold enough to ply their trade in penny loafers) and seizure inducing ditties.

Purists often cite the four pillars that prop up the Temple of Hip Hop, which include DJing (of the type not done at your cousin's Bar Mitzvah when a drunk uncle yells out for 'Hotel California'), emceeing, breakin' (not advisable beyond, let's say, the age of 25, or for anyone with lower back problems) and of course-- graffiti.

A piss drunk Australian graffiti artist who might've been overcome by the fumes of his art or vandalism, depending on your aesthetic sensibilities, and inside a storm water drain no less (presumably so that the surf could wash out his aerosol handiwork, Etch-a-Sketch-style) was rescued when he himself was swept out into the bay and nearly drowned.

In eastern Sydney, teens with a nose for trouble and one that's apparently lost its olfactory powers too, have been known to body board, or "sewer-slide", inside the drain when there is no surf.

According to a local witness, "The young kids from the area are always in the drain every weekend. I don't understand what the fascination is."

Robert Frost home vandalized by drunks: I shall be telling you this with a sigh

We've been known to spritz all over the blogosphere like an aerosol can and on occasion, our dedicated readership gets to inhale vapors of a more "culturally uplifting" variety, if you will—different from what they may choke on recreationally or use to tag the side of a bus.

The shrewder among you may have noticed our novelty bobble-head nod to simile and metaphor in the opening paragraph, a tribute of sorts, to the theme of this posting: not opening night at the ballpark, but verse.

For some, poetry is the ABCB rhyme scheme in a bathroom stall, the gentleman from Nantucket, a wedding toast limerick that embarrassed the family of the bride, or some throwaway snippet of pop music (for example, an ABBA disco rhyme scheme courtesy of ABBA). If you turned on the radio in the 70s for instance, or came upon a classic rock station whose play list had atrophied like gray matter in a police precinct, you'd have heard what is quite possibly the worst verse ever set to music in the English language, "Love Hurts", by Nazareth:

I really learned a lot,
Really learned a lot,
Love is like a flame,
It burns you when it’s hot.

For others, those who slogged through the Canterbury Tales or Beowulf in college before movie versions of either could hit the big screen as a study aid, as well as the general public, the name 'Robert Frost' is synonymous with man of verse, New England and Pulitzer hog.

Frost made the news recently, not because he came back from the dead to wow a new generation of freestyle rappers with stanzas, but because his former Vermont homestead was recently the target of drunk vandals as some 50 minors, taking the road less traveled by (actually, a dead-end road off Route 125), converged on the historic landmark for a raucous party.

According to police reports, "Empty beer bottles and cans, plastic cups and cellophane apparently used to hold marijuana were also found [and] vandals vomited in the living room and discharged two fire extinguishers inside the building."

According to a local sergeant, wicker furniture and dressers were smashed and burned, to provide heat in the unheated structure.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
We trashed the Frost home this Friday
How 'bout you?

Eat Shit! Book archives

As we mentioned in our initial blog, certain stories that we collected for "The Man Who Scared a Shark to Death (and other true tales of drunken debauchery)" did not make the final cut due to length concerns, or, in the case of this particular story, because of an overall consensus between the writers and the publisher that it was just too disgusting.

However, in the interests of completeness -- the star of this one deserves a spot among the world's most notable drunks, even if his story is far more nauseating than the others -- we have decided to post the unpublished parts of the book here on occasion.

We included many stories of drunks trying to beat the law, however few of our protagonists took matters as far as the gentleman in this following story, and hopefully very few have since.

Coprophagia, the consumption of faeces, from the Greek copro (faeces) and phagy (eat) is practiced by several animals due to limitations of their digestive systems or diets. The makers of Binaca breathspray however have yet to engineer a product potent enough to quell the mouth odour brought on by such a diet and as such eating one’s own merde is something of a societal taboo.

From an evolutionary standpoint, the re-ingestion of soft faeces captures vitamins that would otherwise be wasted in certain animals. Perhaps then the 57-year-old man who stuffed his mouth full of his own excrement was doing so not to beat a breathalyser test, as was the assumption of police at the time, but rather in hopes of replenishing vital nutrients after a night of heavy drinking.

Found driving erratically on a lonely stretch of Ontario road, the man was shoved into a patrol car and, in what would assume was a nightmare the next day for a car cleaner, he went on to vomit, urinate and defecate in the backseat. Once at the cop shop the man scooped up some of what he had recently expelled and put it in his mouth before he had to submit to a breathalyser test.

A police inspector speculating as to the motivations behind the man’s spur of the moment feast said he did not think that the man’s level of intoxication could have been solely responsible for making him do something as “disgusting as that”.

The man, alas, had nary a “shit-eating grin” to crack as sadly, he was unsuccessful in this innovative bid at cheating medical science. The breathalyser clocked him at twice the legal alcohol limit, and no doubt, he did not receive an offer that night to share the cellblock’s communal string of dental floss. (Source: The Toronto Sun, November 2005)

The Hurricane, and the Man the Authorities Came to Blame

Carny folk like the guy pictured here (from whom we feel no need whatsoever to dissociate ourselves, as anyone who goes to work with white knee-length socks and a personal fan is unlikely to consult legal advice on matters relating to libel) like firemen, police officers, bus drivers and rodeo clowns, are placed in positions of trust, and are counted upon daily to take good care to properly bolt down the Vomit Coasters and tilt-a-whirls of this world (keen-eyed readers will note an unprecedented, back to back referencing of tilt-a-whirls, in our estimation, a blogosphere first).

While we appreciate that the repeated exposure to objects going around and around in circles represents a rather obvious metaphor for the cards you've been dealt by the great blackjack dealer in the sky (an allegory Pat Sajak would flatly deny), that's no reason whatsoever to be asked to 'step, right up, don't be shy' to a Breathalyzer like the operator of a 'the Hurricane' ride was at a South Carolina county fairground. The carny, who might have made a double entendre out of the phrase 'ring toss' was found 'wobbling on his feet and yelling belligerently', and promptly fired and charged with public intoxication.

This was apparently not the first time the particular fair has come under fire, as the week prior, a 3-year old riding 'The Spider', a 'teacup ride' not nearly as genteel as the name might suggest, passed out--and the operator ignored repeated, frantic calls by the mother to stop the ride.

Home Office at it again

There are certain undeniable signs that the holiday season is once again about to round the corner: whisperings of the next video-game system to end all video-game systems that is to be launched just in time to put mom and pop in the poorhouse for the New Year, but s'alright because at least pale, weak little Johnny will have excellent hand-eye coordination skills; suicide rates starting to soar* and, of course, alcohol consumption among everyday folk rivaling that on a pirate ship after a good plunder.

We devoted an entire chapter in The Shark Book to this topic -- “Festive Cheers: Hooch on the Holidays”, which contained, among other family-album favorites, a tale of a drunken Santa (for a full movie-length treatment of this particular theme, we highly recommend Bad Santa) who, after drinking boxed wine all day between consultations with the tots, crashed through his department store’s main display window.

Law-enforcement officials repeatedly try in vain to come up with some way to curb holiday drinking or at least limit its less socially desirable effects, and none of these is more odious than the planting of plainclothes policemen in bars to catch staff members serving drinks to people already over the limit.

According to the bar-licensee trade publication The Morning Advertiser, the British Home Office is gearing up to implement just such a fish-in-the barrel policy this upcoming holiday season. The Home Office plans to target bars that serve drunks (which of course every bar does -- it's called good business Jack!) by stationing two plainclothes officers in establishments targeted for surveillance.

In this regard, may we suggest that during this holiday season bar patrons keep an eye out for any suspicious looking character whose cheeks are not as rosy as your own and who simply refuses to join in the group sing of Abba’s Fernando? First one to correctly point out the plainclothes and loudly declare “Narc!” drinks free all night.

Aside from the obvious concerns of the state sending around babysitters to mind what grown adults are doing when they're not filling out tax forms, British licensees are worried about what definition of drunkenness these cops are going by given that while I may develop a snarl after my fourth pint, the drinker beside me might become wittier and remember long-forgotten limericks, the type that could delight a whole crowd and make someone's day -- the differences in the effects of drunkenness are just that diverse.

The licensing official interviewed by the publication said that “… the main aim is to say to pubs you can’t continue serving people until they are paralytic,” -- a comment rife with ambiguity. If a customer is spread out horizontally on the floor but still has the wherewithal to wiggle a toe or issue a thumbs-up in response to “One more for you Father Feeney?”, then serving that individual would presumably be acceptable in the eyes of this official.

The British Beer & Pub Association is currently protesting the plan, and, for what it's worth (Editor's Note: almost nothing) The Shark Book authors would like to extend their support.

(*An urban legend according to Scopes, which makes sense since given increasing securalization, one would have assumed that non-religious holidays, like Groundhog Day for example, would have seen a similar spike in deaths… hmm… perhaps that reasoning is not sound.)

EMT Phone Home

Call it a wish for the party never to end or a less noble desire to pull some unsuspecting sleeping sober person into your drunken, maniacal world, but, for whatever reason, picking up the phone at 3am while so drunk you stink of it often seems like a good idea at the time. The urge to drink and dial, apparently, affects folks in all professions including those who should -- even when they spend an evening up-turning tequilas and slowly building up a pile of lime rinds around them -- know better.An off-duty (in every sense of that term) emergency medical technician in Staten Island broke one of the main rules surrounding her very profession – one that every parent who does not fetch their child’s lunch from the couch cushions knows: do not crank call 911 emergency services.

The lady in question did just this, calling in a phony assault complaint against the bartender who took her keys in order to prevent her from giving lessons in interpretative driving on Staten Island’s roads. Unhappy with the service she received, the wronged woman then went on to her emergency band radio, tuned it to an NYPD frequency, and gave everyone who was listening at that time a lecture on the myriad inadequacies of Staten Island law enforcement. Having thus shamed Staten Island’s best (or confused NYPD’s) she then went on to find a payphone and make three crank calls to 911, two reporting a jumper in Lower New York Bay, and a third saying that a man with a knife had taken her purse.

The former two calls, not surprisingly, resulted in a huge FDNY and police turnout, which, had their been a drowning man, would have been a good thing. Police traced the calls and found the EMT, apparently out of quarters, at the payphone from which she had made the last call. (Full story here)