Once upon a time in the snowy wastes of Wisconsin there lived a man named Dildo Swaggins. Mr. Swaggins and his band of merry idiots lived in a house that just so happened to be on a college campus, and they all coincidentally happened to be college students. As many college students know, after finals end there is very occasionally a brief respite before life resumes, and this usually takes the form of a day or two of blissful nothing before travel home begins.

Such an opportunity arose one fateful year and Swaggins was determined to capitalize upon it! He offered a challenge to those of his friends brave enough to accept: shot for shot with Dildo Swaggins. Now, this was quite the daunting task, as Swaggins was a good 6'4, some 200 lbs, and blessed with the kidneys of a water purifier: a challenge indeed. Myself and a few other brave souls stepped up to the challenge, including my roommate and good friend "Trucknuts", as well as a fierce competitor whom we'll call Dingus Khan. Armed with a bottle of Kraken, my compatriots and I sat down and began our grim work.

As it turns out, I didn't regularly partake then (and I've since quit altogether), so I don't remember much of the evening. I vaguely remember being wrestled into bed with my pants around my ankles by my other roommate, "Rimjob McBrobro the Scrotish Longshoreman," while Trucknuts and I screamed "303!" at the top of our lungs. Im not entirely sure he succeeded in putting me to bed, though, as I have a brief memory of being chased across a field and me laughing my ass off.

One way or another, I finally stumbled back into lucid memory at around 3 am when I wandered into the bathroom to relieve what I recall to be quite the full bladder. As I sat down and took care of my business, an absolute riot was happening in the stall next to mine. There was screaming, yelling, singing, the kid was slapping the sides of the stall — all the while, noises I cannot accurately relate were screaming from what I can only assume was his rear end. I made an attempt at conversation but received only a garbled mess of words from my friend in the adjacent stall. As I walked out of the cubicle, I turned just in time to see a veritable meteor of vomit erupt all over a pair of feet. I promptly decided that it was time for bed, and fell into quite a slumber.

I awoke the next morning at 8:30 am to find Trucknuts passed out sideways in his bed with his girlfriend occupying whatever space was left on the bed. I fell out of bed and managed to roll myself to the bathroom, but something was wrong. My first indicator was the pair of boxers firmly wedged in the crack of the door. The second was the slightly damp pile of vomit on the floor, silhouetting the outline of two feet at the base of the porcelain throne. I never once entertained the notion in my mind that I would be the one to clean that up, or, as I said at the time: "That's f***ing gross."

There was only one thing to do; I put on my detective hat and went door to door. The first suspect was the man who lived across the hall from the bathroom, "Sack-tap-agawea." I burst through the door and inquired from within:

"Did you puke last night?"

"No."

I asked to see his feet to be sure, at which he procured two fairly well pedicured feet. Not to be deterred, I cast my suspicion upon my roommate Rimjob McBrobro and asked of him a similar request; he proudly displayed two feet wrapped in socks. I left him to his slumber. Trucknuts himself was clean as well, leaving only one room un-interrogated.

I approached my last unturned stone with some anticipation. The smell of vomit was beginning to waft down the corridor and so, too, would begin the question of who was actually going to clean this up — a job which I was determined to pass off to someone else, preferably the culprit.

Opening the door, I found Dingus Khan butt-ass naked, a small amount of blood dried on his face and toes notably caked with vomit.

"Did you puke last night?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah man, I definitely didn't puke."

"Is that blood on your head?"

"Oh shit."

He threw on a bathrobe and entered the bathroom, where he recognized both his boxers and last night's dinner, now dried on the bathroom floor. Upon further investigation we were able to deduce that Dingus Khan had managed to puke, piss, poop, and concuss himself in a single magical second. It's a feat I am unlikely to see replicated again in my lifetime, and I'm honored to have served witness, and even more grateful that I didn't have to clean it up.

In the end, the investigation concluded, nobody had won the challenge. Apparently, after the first few shots myself and my compatriots collectively degenerated into toddlers in the bodies of college students, whereas Dildo Swaggins didn't even get tipsy; we all lost.