Drew's typical Saturday night

You come to and your body looks like yours. Obscure metal t-shirt, check. 70's bellbottoms, check. Crippling rage issues, check. You are Drew, and you are in a bathroom now. You know deep in your heart that you can't handle your shit, but now you are astonished at how big of a blackout lightweight you are. The last thing you remember is shotgunning a Bartles and James Pear Passion Lime Estrogen Wine Cooler at 7 pm.

The bathroom is well lit, its almost morning, your pants are around your ankles and there is a 2 year old Penthouse crumpled at your feet. Most likely the product of a failed masturbation session. Now you are scared. You don't remember how you got into this bathroom.

At least you know who's bathroom it is. It belongs to your good friend Clitoris Rex, and he did this to you.

Your pre-existing anger problem starts bubbling and you instantly burst a blood vessel in your eye for no apparent reason. "No time to panic", you think, "I will simply grab this here door knob, twist, and pull, and I will be free of this bathroom, on my way to fall asleep on a couch, huzzah." You grab for the doorknob, and realize, THERE IS NO DOORKNOB!

Panic. What happened to the doorknob? Is this some kind of sick game? Is the doorknob surgically buried in some infant's chest and the only way I can survive is to chew the knob out of the screaming infant?

That would actually be sweet, you think, thankful for the moment of clarity.

You plunge back into panic mode again and your heart races to the point of almost popping. You think, "The door will not open, perhaps a few light raps upon the door will be enough to wake the bathroom owners, who could come let me out, yeah, that's the ticket."

"Ziggy says this doesn't look good Sam."

No one responds. What will you do? Will you improvise a comfortable way to sleep in the bathtub? You are so tired, your body hurts from too much headbanging, and you have the lyrics to Pantera's 'Becoming' cycling through your head on repeat.

Fuck the bathtub, you say. The panic has now completely taken over, sending all of your blood screaming through your head, so you scream back. The adrenaline takes your voice up a few pitches so now you sound like a pre-menstrual field hockey player. What a pussy.

LET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!!
AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!!!
WHO DID THIS TO ME???!!!!!
HOW DID I GET HERE!!!!!!!!
WHERE IS THE FUCKING DOORKNOB!!!!
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!?!!!!
SOMEONE PLEASE FUCKING HELP ME I'M SO SCARED!!!!

The door opens, finally, somehow, its your friend/captor Patrick. You are sweating, close to tears, and fighting off a massive stroke/seizure/aneurysm/case of the runs.

"Dude, you are the worst alarm clock ever."

WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME OUT??!!!
DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME SCREAMING??!!!
I SOILED MYSELF BECAUSE OF YOU!!!

You scream, but its no use, everyone is already laughing. No one even notices your struggle because you have been upstaged. All of your stress and pain went unnoticed in the face of the aftermath of a vicious piss whirlwind that has swept through the entire apartment. Thanks to a non-housetrained drunk girl, no one cares that you just had an existential crisis in a bathroom in queens.

What a pussy.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH.