The thing is, I was never much of a binge drinker. Well, if you define binge drinking as "drinking one's self into a stupor, throwing up one's shoes, and boozily waving 'bye-bye' to them as they swirl down the toilet" at any rate. However, I've had lots of friends (and, truth be told, one wife) who did define it that way. Fortunately they've pretty much all gotten too old for that sort of foolishness, but there's always war stories to tell:

1:18: The vomiting is over. I am now trying to stop the bleeding. A bright light hits my eyes. I am not happy. I tell the owner to “get that fucking light out of my face.” The owner of the light identifies himself as an officer of the law. I apologize to the officer, and ask him what the problem is. A long pause ensues. The light is still in my eyes. “Son, where are your pants?” Remembering past encounters with the law, and realizing there is no one around to bail me out of the county lock-up, I summon every bit of adrenaline in my body to sober myself up. I apologize again, and explain to the officer that my pants are in the restaurant that is less than 50 feet away, and that I came outside to share my sushi with the bush. He doesn’t laugh. Another long pause. “You’re not driving tonight are you?”, “Oh, NO, NO, NO…no sir, I don’t even have a valid driver’s license.”

An adventure is a fun story to tell years later because you don't remember how miserable or bug-eyed frightening the reality was. Fortunately I have a very long memory, which is why I have exactly one, and only one, "sushipants"-caliber story in my own past. My relatives will merrily regale you with it, requiring little (usually no) prompting, especially during formal parties and receptions, so I won't relate it here (for now).

But at least I kept up with my pants.

Via Silflay