This was in my freshman year of college, mere weeks in, Family Weekend, no less. It would be until about halfway through Sophomore year before I could confidently call myself a drunkard in the public party realm and take all risks, rewards, and dares incumbent thereof.
My roommate was from the Republic of Georgia and was a rugby player. Big guy. Hell of fun. Great guy for chilling and watching movies completely undrunk, and he had family labels of vodka and wine.
So we go over and take his two unconfiscated vodka bottles (my Freshman RA was a by-the-book dick) and head over to his Bulgarian friend's apartment with our Bosnian friend, Dyan, in tow -- you see, I lived in the international dorm freshman year.
We get there and the vodka is gone in minutes, both bottles and the Bulgarian chap had two of his own. This was pretty early on, so we said, "Hey, why not hit up this party we know about in the off-campus, on-campus apartments? But there might not be much to drink." So in preperation we each shotgunned two beers, had three more shots -- maybe it was vodka, I'm not sure, but it was clear -- and headed over.
Well, they did have stuff to drink, but the last thing I remember is falling over on a curb. Little inexperienced me drank all of that in about 90 minutes with a Georgian rugby player and his two pro drinker friends.
Next day, the phone rings at 9 AM. And as it is said, now you know the rest of the story.
I didn't fight a secret war in Nicaragua so you could walk these streets of freedom badmouthing Lady America, in your damn mirrored sunglasses!