The Last Brain Cell

An Alcoholic Adventure

Ok, so this is my first post on The Last Brain Cell. I’m Bluto’s Alcoholic counterpart from down under. He refers to my country as “Earth’s animal demon factory”. That’s right, It’s Natmiel bitches. And I’m here to tell you all a story.

So, on the Thirteenth of May, a friend invited (asked me to buy her a ticket and myself one so she wouldn’t have to go alone) me to go to the gig of a band called Gyroscope (Aussie band. They’re alright.) I agreed, purchased the tickets and headed to her place in the city before the gig on the night of the Sixteenth. She suggested we start drinking then at hers, as it would be cheaper and we also had a game of pool as she has her own table (rich fucker). So, we break open a bottle of Southern Comfort and she has one glass. I have two glasses, that are stronger than hers. By the time we leave her place half the bottle’s gone, me having drunk much of that half. We get the to club the gig’s at, just to find we have tons of spare time, so we hit the pub next door. I have three Pints. Tooheys Old. A black ale. Good stuff…

Anyway. The gig starts. We hit the bar at the club. Over the hour or so we each have five Jaeger Bombs. (A shot of Jaeger dropped in half a can of Red Bull, for those that don’t know). The gig finishes. Neither of us are ready to call it quits. We ring up a friend and head out their way. Another beer is consumed. We head back to my friend’s apartment in the city. I’m gonna crash on the couch as she lives close to where I work. Things get hazy from here. I don’t remember much. I do remember picking up the half bottle of Southern Comfort. Apparently I skulled it.

Next thing I know I woke up in my own bed at home. I have three heart monitor tags attached to my chest, a hole in my arm where they stuck the IV and two tags on my arm. One with my details, the other listing my allergies: Artificial Sweeteners. I have no memory of anything after getting back to the apartment. Except a brief flash of an ambo. All my muscles ache from vomiting and dry heaving. My throat hurts from the stomach pump. I’m in bad shape. BUT: I don’t have a hangover. Victory. I’m informed of what I did. It involves hanging over a balcony eleven storeys up and puking onto the road below, mentioning my surroundings, taking swings at the nurses and other incredibly embarrassing things. The decision to ring the ambulance came when my breathing stopped. My Blood Alcohol Level was 0.41. Death can occur at this level. Liver damage occurred. I’m one lucky fucker. I haven’t touched a drink since. (well, maybe one or two… Or ten).

Thursday, the nineteenth of June. A letter arrives for me. My first name is spelt incorrectly, but whatever. I open it. It’s the Ambulance bill. The ride was ten kilometres from my friend’s apartment to RPA (Royal Prince Alfred’s Hospital). The total payable on the bill (what I have to pay) is $279 Autralian. That’s $263 American.

The moral of this story: Don’t ring the ambulance, no matter how drunk your friend is. Either find someone sober enough to drive OR call a taxi. No way is a ten KM ride worth $279. Fucking expensive taxi.

- Natmiel -

Tags: alcohol poisoning, ambulance, drunk, hospital, Natmiel