*NEW* Shop the Drunky But Funky store!

Last Five Hangovers...
The Ten Thousand Dollar Choking Hazard - 2004-12-09
Mixing Advice - 2004-10-24
A Grave Injustice - 2004-09-27
A Short History of the Bloody Mary (in My Life) - 2004-07-31
If You Build It, We Will Come - 2004-07-19

BE A FRIEND OF THE MOVEMENT!

The bucket doesn't exist yet in tangible form, but it's got a legend behind it nonetheless.

One highly drunky and beyond funky disciple of The Summer of Excessive Drinking and Inappropriate Behavior, based in the Washington, D.C., area, vacations every July 4 with her family and a horde of her closest family friends. It's a massive gathering of old college chums and their children, the purpose of which is to renew their lifelong bond while getting so trashed that they forget the sheer number of years they've been doing it (this year it's the 35th anniversary).

Generally speaking, somebody does his or her family proud every year by puking most inauspiciously, and probably semi-publicly as well. Rather than chastise the victim, this group of revelers embodies the true spirit of inappropriateness and instead awards the puker a special bucket. The most recent bucket holder is our reader's sister, who threw up in spectacular fashion the morning of her wedding. No one has bested her; thus, no one has wrested the bucket from her infamous hands.

It's been suggested that we acquire a bucket of our own as a trophy of our planned summer shenanigans, but we're far too lazy, and anyway, that just takes away from our booze budget. But there's no reason that a figurative bucket can't be awarded. Carrie and Michael each get one retroactively, the former for Pukesplash and the latter for the puke-burp incident of week one.

But the first official Boozehound Bucket is bestowed upon Kim.

Kim's fate was sealed when she arrived at the bar insisting she wouldn't, absolutely couldn't, drink very much that night. Tip #1 for aspiring drunks like us: Never say this. She rapidly progressed through a few bombed cars and pints of cider into the kind of off-balance movement that prompted her to think she could lower herself gracefully onto Lauren's lap, only to collapse in a tangle of limbs and giggles on the sidewalk outside of O'Brien's, wondering why the floor got so close to her all of a sudden.

The Technicolor finale came on the way home, when an errant bump in the road turned into a large, vomitous mess. Congratulations, Kim! It was a bucket well-earned, doubly so because she didn't have to clean up the evidence herself.

The runner-up: Heather.

Heather's journey to Boot Camp progressed something like this: There were car bombs involved, something purple, some creamy shots, a bunch of cider, and a lot of shouting. In the car, she calmly but gleefully announced, "I had a very lot to drunk and I can't wait to get home so that I can vomit!" At home she promptly puked as predicted and then ran out into the living room with a celebratory dance and shouted, "Lauren, I vomited!" For good measure, she drunk-dialed Bill to announce her successful reverse peristalsis. "I might be vomiting, too," he replied. "Oh, you SHOULD!" Heather shouted. "You won't be sorry!" Then she passed out without cleaning the toilet.

The entire Bon Voyage party was a successful event, in that most attendees were as drunk and disorderly as Heather, and everybody got caught in an incriminating photograph or two. When the girl-on-girl kissing for the cameras started, the bartenders stopped what they were doing and cheered. There was dancing and singing and some feeble attempts at pool hustling, in addition to a lot of facial aches and pains from laughing at the kind of things that are so hilarious when you're loaded, yet impossible to remember when sober, and even if you do, they suffer in the retelling unless you piss yourself up again.

Heather was almost certainly the stupidest drunk at the party. In addition to smoking a couple Camels despite still being afflicted with an irritating cough, she and Dr. No did two blow-job shots for the sole purpose of pointing at each others' white mouths and laughing like children. "When does the making out start?" Dr. No asked. "Now," shrugged Heather. Moments later she slurred triumphantly, "I kissed you with my blow-job mouth."

Lauren came in a close second by virtue of how utterly drunk she got, needing several accompanied fresh-air breaks amid the usual tongue theatrics with Dr. No. She also was approached by a girl she had not seen since they played basketball together in high school, whose name she only remembered because the sheer quantity of alcohol consumed erased the performance anxiety usually present when asked to recall a name on command. Tip #2, courtesy of Lauren: If you want to have dinner beforehand to help slow the descent into debauchery, eat before you get to the bar, and not at it. The fish and chips served about as well as a Kleenex would to soak up the amount of cider she spilled on her shoes throughout the evening.

Which brings us to Tip #3, provided by Tony: If you drop your napkin, and then notice it dropped into your drink, and then shrug and finish your drink without removing the napkin because it still looks fairly drinkable, well, it may be time to call that your last drink.

Carrie and Jessica started out strong, but chose to sober up so they could get themselves home safely. Noble choices, yes, but a tad too appropriate for the movement to endorse their eschewal of taxicabs. And Michael, still on vacation in Michigan, was present briefly by cell phone but constantly in our minds. We missed you, Skeletor.

Drunk or sober, vertical or clinging to vertical people for dear life, an enjoyable time was had by all -- even the fashion time-warp victim in the polo shirt with the turned-up collar, whom we dubbed "80s Guy." Although we threatened among ourselves to confront this self-styled Spicoli on his unfortunate fashion choices, he left the bar with collar and spirits undaunted. Tip #4: Don't be 80s Guy. We've seen James Spader in Pretty in Pink, and there is no topping that. Unless you employ loafers, white linen, flowing hair, and also the real James Spader.

In closing, we'd like to offer the following photograph -- courtesy of May Day -- as either a ringing endorsement for bringing cameras to every big party you throw, or as a cautionary tale for people like poor Heather who don't belong in front of the camera lens, ever. In her defense, Heather would like to point out that she does not under normal circumstances fully resemble the hideous beast you see below -- unless by some stroke of misfortune she actually does, in which case she'll be decapitating herself shortly, and in lieu of flowers, please send donations to Glamour Shots.

Still, despite her being so alarmingly fair of skin and crimson of tonsil, it's a pretty brilliant photo that could well be the poster for The Summer Of Excessive Drinking And Inappropriate Behavior -- at least, until the Wednesday arrival of photos from Jessica's infamous birthday debauchery and Week One's spectacular trip to 4100 Club.

Here it is, the picture that's worth a thousand entries. Love it, live it.