Hitting a New Level of Drunkenness: Weekend at Bernie’s Drunk
Picture Nancy Kerrigan, right after she’d been “Gilloolyed,” trying to pull off a Travolta-esque strut (circa Saturday Night Fever). If you can see that, you can see my inebriated friend “Nacho’s” swagger the notorious night he became Bernie. Once he’d swaggered enough, he fell face-first onto the sidewalk, fortuitously right in front of a delicious diner on the Upper East Side. So we went inside, leaving Nacho scattered on the cement like pieces of a neglected puzzle.
As we waited for our food, my friend “Ralph” and I peered from the fishbowl window onto Second Avenue, thinking Nacho might be dead. If not dead, definitely assuming a fetal, curbside posture formally the exclusive pose of homeless winos.
Previously, the night consisted of painting the town awesome with a babble of babes, I guess you could say we were cruising on Babeylon-5, except there were only 4 babes, so let’s call it Babeylon-4 and get back to the stinking, drunk Nacho.
One of the babes suggested that maybe we should, like, check on our friend. But before we could get a forensic confirmation on whether Nacho was dead, Ralph scooped up a grilled cheese, proposed a toast, and saluted, “To good food, great friends, and the hope that Nacho will survive this night.”
We actually went on to tap the crusts of our grilled cheeses.
Feeling an obligation to add the perfunctory comment, I tacked on, “Man, is that dude wasted! Ow!” When no one laughed, I quickly blurted an addendum, “I’m talking Weekend at Bernie’s wasted,” which henceforth became the tagline of our night.
Anyone familiar with that early-90s silver screen gem can imagine the zany premise that became my and Ralph’s tour of the Upper East Side with an absurdly intoxicated Nacho fastened on our shoulders. In fact, Nacho didn’t even look drunk – that motherfucker looked diseased.
Our night had begun in my parent’s basement, inhaling beers, which we continued on the Metro North. Stumbling around Grand Central, we were the jerks people pointed out and said, “Oh my God, look at those assholes, it’s not even 8:30 yet.” Asian tourists took pictures of us. Wide-eyed children gawked that we smelled like daddy. It was an auspicious beginning to a night that became an unproductive mix of drunk shenanigans and using Nacho as a life-size Raggedy Ann doll.
We hit the bars where, round after round, we flapped crisp bills on dank cherry wood as we racked up an impressive cache of frequent asshole miles that were redeemed for a one-way trip to Belligerent City.
Between bars, Nacho slopped all over the place, occasionally plopping face-first onto a curb like a floppy noodle. Throughout the whole ordeal, he couldn’t have looked more proud of himself, and because of that, the night was legendary. So the next time one of your friends gets too drunk to stand up, remember Nacho and throw him into a gaggle of garbage cans like he’s a human bowling pin, then tell him the next morning he got “Weekend at Bernie’s drunk.” It will be awesome, trust me.
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About Rob J. Rob J. is a writer and dating instructor in New York City. Themes that resonate in both his teaching and writing are masculinity, genuineness, rational self-interest, and general awesomeness.