They also showed me the several photos they took of them standing behind my naked ass giving thumbs up and making other obscene gestures. I originally wrote ‘fuckin’ assholes’ here, but I realize how that could be incorrectly interpreted, so I’ll leave that they’re a good bunch of guys who are also jerks of the finest caliber.
Much relieved, we decided it was best if we all just got dressed for dinner. It’s important to note that, at this particular instant, everyone in the room, myself included, believed that I had merely slept during the three hour interlude whilst I was in the room and my friends were at the pool party. This, as we soon learned, was not the case.
In preparation for the pool party earlier that day, we had all changed out of our normal street clothes and into pool attire in the room. Among the many items left in the room as a result of the changing process were my friends’ $400 pair of fine leather boots. Boots which, at the precise moment that we all decided to get dressed, were on the floor, next to my bed. I put on my pants, my best man put on his shirt, another groomsman put on his suit, and our last friend stuck his foot into the first boot and discovered that it was full, to the brim, of vomit.
I believe he screamed, ‘WHAT THE EVER LOVING FUCK?!?’ as he kicked the boot off of his foot as hard as he could.
Please, dear reader, take a moment to imagine how one physically kicks a boot off of one’s foot. Does it shoot straight off in a lovely arc whereby any liquid—however unlikely—that may be inside of it, would remain in the boot? Or does it, in fact, spin like a helicopter’s stabilizing rotor, end over end, spraying vomitous goo upon the floor, beds, ceiling, and—of course—the person who kicked off said boot?
Spoiler alert: It’s the latter.”
