The Fascist Double Standard of the Upchucking Fat Guy

When the Big Country and I met up back at the former homestead a few days ago, more than a few of the old stories came crashing back in my mind. For those who know us both, the fact that the majority of those old tales involved the third member of our friendship — beer — is no surprise.

In our day, Big Country and I spent a lot of time together, not much of it was sober and/or productive. However, it was one hell of a party. There was one memory I always recall when thinking of that big, rosy-cheeked bastard. It also reminds me of why fat guys must follow their own set of rules while drinking.

It was opening day of the 2005 Major League Baseball season, and the San Francisco Giants were kicking things off at the San Diego Padres' new stadium, Petco Park. 

(Here's a few things you need to know about this game: The Giants' Jason Schmidt and San Diego's Jake Peavy were two of the best pitchers in the game. The team's offenses were horrid. And Petco is definitely a pitcher's ballpark. Add it up and it equals one quick game.)

The Big Country and I decided it was the time to break out what has now been infamously dubbed as "The-18-Beers-in-18-Half-Innings Debacle." The premiss is easy enough: Drink a beer for every half inning of a baseball game.

This was easily the worst drinking idea I have ever made. And I've made some bad ones.

Anyway, by the seventh inning I was beyond hammered. I entered rare air that afternoon (Oh yeah, it wasn't even 5 p.m. when we started). One of the final things I remember from that day was heaving violently in a filthy bathroom, but decided to finish off my spew session with one final yak in front of a number of people.

The looks I received were fit for only the worst of God's monsters. Really horrid stuff. I got what was so disgusting, but it's not like I beat one cat to death with another, bigger cat.

Here's my delusional point: I have seen many of you "normies" out there vomit in public, but I have never seen anyone get a look like I got that evening. It is often seen as a simple comedic foible for a regular person, but not for a fat guy.

Apparently, there's nothing more stomach turning than to watch a big barrel of a man heaving all over the floor. Which leads us to the real point of this post:

We, as members of the Fat Guy Coalition, must live with our own set of drinking rules.

Now that I think of it, the fat guy drinking rule book is a subject far too grand for just one post on the Fat Guy Report. But I like this start.

The point is simple: The boozing fat guy must understand there is nothing more unattractive than one of us stumbling around, slurring our words, and relieving ourselves in one gigantic belly blast in front of outsiders. 

You have to be twice the man of the regular drinking guy when you really are TWICE the man of a regular guy. That's Rule No. 1.

I (heart) pie.