SPRING AHEAD, FALL BACK, SHOOT ANOTHER TEQUILA. SPRING AHEAD, FALL BACK, SHOOT ANOTHER TEQUILA.

The first and last time I ever shot tequila was in the summer of 1985.

To me, I always expected tequila to taste like salsa. I expected a robust, tomatoey MEXICAN flavor. I halfway expected to gulp a shot, and instantly start fanning my mouth, trying to cool off the salsa taste and going "WHOOOOO!!! That's some mighty hot tequila!!"

Nope.

Tequila tastes like aged leper piss.

And yes, goddammit...I think I should know what aged leper piss tastes like, thank you very much. I spent 11 years in a Turkish prison for a crime I didn't commit, HOW DARE YOU suggest I don't know what aged leper piss tastes like...

....the nerve....the nerve of you....

Why...I halfway feel like not finishing the story now, Mr/Ms Big Shot Second Guessing My Ass All The Time...

What's that??

What??

An apology?

Okay, forgiven!! HUGS!!!

(Uncle Bob wraps his arms around you and gives ya a big "forgiven" hug and then gives you one of those squeezes on your ass that makes you think "Ewwww...Christ...you're my Uncle, you sick bastard" but you don't really think it because I'm not REALLY your uncle and then (if you're female) you must silently admit to yourself that it turned you on just a hair, because hey...it's Uncle Bob.)

(Unless of course, my nephews have stumbled upon this site. If that's the case, I'm screwed. Nice knowin' y'all. I'm headin' to Divorce Court)

Where were we...where were we....ahhhh....TEQUILA!!!

...I just had a Pee Wee Herman vibe going there...

Alright...back to the story... Summer, 1985 ... my good buddy Keith was dating this woman who had a single friend. We decided that the four of us should get together.

I was cool with that.

My "date" for the evening was Michael.

Yes ... Michael was a woman.

Yes...it was pronounced "Michael". Not "Michelle".

Yes, I tried to get her to blow me, just so I could finally have my dick in someone else's mouth and say "I'm not gonna try it...you try it...let's get Mikey to try it....HEY MIKEY, she likes it!!"

Sorry. Lame joke. But by now, I think everyone expects lame jokes sprinkled throughout this tomfoolery every single time they come in here.

The four of us sat around Keith's apartment and watched videos. At the time, Keith and I worked in a Music store that rented videos, and we were one of the few stores in town that rented adult videos.

So of course, we were watching adult videos.

The gals were getting thirsty and suggested we make a liquor run. They wanted tequila.

I was cool with that. I figured there was no better time than the present to drink the salsa-flavored delicacy.

Having never drank the stuff, I didn't know that in order to shoot tequila, it's good to have salt and ....shit....is it lime?? It's either lemon or lime to suck on to kill the bitter aftertaste. I seriously don't know.

I thought tequila and a bag of tortilla chips to pour the tequila on would be sufficient.

And once again...it's NO WONDER I wasn't getting laid that much ... nobody wants to wake up next to Dr. Retardo, mutant of science.

We get back to the apartment and pull out the two bottles of tequila. They ask for the lime and we don't have any lime.

These gals put on their best white trash Martha Stewart hats and decided that the exact opposite would work just as good. Which makes me think, we were shooting tequila and sucking lemons instead of limes.

I think that's it.

Shit. Sorry. It's been 15 years. Does anybody else think they can take the floor and give me a detailed list of what all they put in their mouth 15 years ago????

(Uncle Bob sits back, folds his arms across his chest and feels a smirk crawl across his face as he waits for Anenigma's lurid, detailed answers)

Anyway...

As it turns out, only Michael and I shoot the tequila, sitting at the kitchen table together. Other guys show up, which causes the two girls to call enough friends over to keep the guys happy, and the thing turns into a full blown party.

Meanwhile...Michael and I are finishing off a bottle of tequila and staring into each other's eyes.

Eventually ... and excuse me if my recollection of time fucking SUCKS right now ... but my tum-tum starts to feel as if Gary Coleman is somehow trapped in my esophagus and is trying to kick his way out.

Ah yes....the tequila and chips. So nice of you to stop by. Did you leave your coat??

With all the grace of a three legged bull, I make my way to Keith's sole bathroom and begin to practice my projectile vomiting.

Actually...I've never had projectile vomit. But...like all red-blooded American males ... I keep waiting patiently for that day, and when it comes, it will rival the birth of my bastard child as far as significance and meaning. If, in fact, significance isn't widely considered to be "meaning". If they ARE considered to be the same thing...then let's just say "significance".

Here's the ironic part...are you ready??

My tequila-shooting partner-in-crime Michael was right behind me, ready to give her liquid offering to the porcelain God as well. I was in the bathtub, trying desperately to give her some peace and alone time while she was curled up over the toilet seven inches away, retching half a bottle of tequila out of her esophagus. She was making noises like a wounded cow which I found incredibly amusing. I began laughing hard, but then I felt the vomit coming. So I pushed Michael back enough to where I didn't get her covered in recycled Tostitos, and I use the toilet to hurl garbled, chunky insults at the water.

The next few hours, Michael and I set up camp in the bathroom and got to know each other pretty well. When people needed to use the bathroom, we simply laid there on the bathroom floor and closed our eyes to give them privacy. It was an honor system that we had devised ourselves and we were pretty damned proud of it.

"Look y'all, I've gotta pee..."

"We'll close our eyes. We won't look."

Eyes shut.

Pee flows.

Commence vomiting.

System works.

The next morning, I woke up in Keith's bed. Fully clothed.

And with my hand nestled safely inside Michael's panties.

Mr. Tequila Stud apparently got his mack on enough to get his vomit and sweat-drenched woman in bed. But ... foreshadowing sexual escapades in the years to come ... decided to pass out right when the going got good.

She woke up about the same time that I did. Which was REALLY embarrassing. There's nothing quite like removing your hand from someone's genitalia that you just met 12 hours earlier and not remembering a damned thing about it.

Check "The Rules" to see if you find THAT little scenario in there and the best way to handle it. Sorry, but that damned book doesn't cover THAT shit, sister.

I guess I just smiled sheepishly and tried to respect her enough not to wave "good morning" with my now-free and chapped hand.

I never touched tequila after that. The smell of it today makes me sick. Can't drink and WON'T DRINK margaritas or anything with tequila in it. The Bottom Line...tequila ...BAD.

I used to see my puke partner every now and then after that long night. She must have got married, because about once a year, I'd catch a glance of her at the mall with the same guy every year. So it's either marriage or he's keeping her plugged full of tequila.

Personally, I'd keep her tanked on tequila. Those wounded cow sounds that she makes are funnier than any Mike Myers movie I've ever seen.

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If you want to read my OTHER diary when UNCLE BOB was 18 and pitiful , PLUS check out my senior yearbook photo (I'm not gay...but I woulda done me...) CLICK HERE .

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