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It’s National Tequila Day! It also happens to be Taco Tuesday, meaning you have even MORE reason to celebrate this made-up excuse for boozin’. We encourage you to drink responsibly, you guys! But if you need additional motivation not to get blitzed later, we’ve got three cautionary tales of utter idiocy (and upset stomachs) that came at the hands of our very own staff overindulging in el diablo’s drink:

From Jose Lopez-Sanchez:

I grew up in the Dominican Republic, a country that should really consider co-opting Outback Steakhouse’s slogan of “No Rules, Just Right” as the official tourism tagline. As such, despite 18 being the official drinking age, it was pretty easy to openly buy booze as a tall, wispily mustachioed teenager – whether at a corner store or a party.

I was fifteen years old or so and my band had played first or second as part of a local bill at this multipurpose social club – part watering hole, part sports complex, all dingy. Obviously the promoters weren’t about to pay punks with actual money, so instead they gave us a couple of pizzas and “open bar” access.

Seeing as the DR is a rum drinking country, I took this as an opportunity to try something new, exciting, and different: Montezuma tequila. And by “try” I mean, drink eight tequila sunrises after our set was over and attempt to breakdance. I recall trying to do the worm and popping up onto my knees, with just enough time to gasp for air before unleashing a torrent of grenadine, orange juice, and tequila.

Shoutout to my friend Raul’s mom for driving all of us home and simply laughing when she pulled up to the party. Had to throw those dad jeans out though. I didn’t drink tequila again for years and years, though it’s my poison of choice these days.

From Marissa Rubenstein:

Whenever I hear the word tequila, I think of my friend Emilia screaming “Tequila! Tequila! Tequila!” in her Swedish accent as we downed shots before heading out to go clubbing on the Gold Coast of Australia. I miss most of those nights like crazy. Sultry tropical weather, hot Australian men, lots and lots of salt and tequila. Every night except one.

The night had begun just like most other nights – a round of shots at Emilia’s. I had been trying to meet up with this guy, but it seemed that every bar my friends and I went to, he and his friends had just left. So the pattern went – bar – shot- try another bar – shot…after a few bars, my friends were dropping like flies. I vaguely remember something about being at a penthouse (at this point having lost my shoes) when the golden “Hey come meet me,” text came from said guy. I remember everyone telling me the bar would not let me in without shoes but I was determined to try. So I headed down the elevator, alone, sans shoes, hugging a bottle of tequila as if it were a teddy bear. I stumbled down the street to the bar the guy was at. I don’t remember this, but from what people who were there have told me, I went up to the bouncer, offered him my bottle of tequila, and when he wouldn’t let me in, proceeded to walk a few steps and pass out on a curb.

And that’s where I was found a few hours later when everyone left the bar, passed out almost in the street, sleeping soundly with my tequila bottle.

Surprisingly, that guy and I didn’t work out.

From Megan Burns:

I try to avoid tequila for the most part, because I’m honestly more of a beer drinker when it comes to boozing. But that’s not to say it escapes me completely, though, and so I have an arsenal of cringey stories as a result. Here is one!

In college I did study abroad in Buenos Aires for a semester, and when I returned back to campus second semester of my junior year, I had a rather intensely difficult time trying to readjust to life in bumfuck Ohio. The first few weeks I spent a lot of time hanging out by myself listening to a bizarre mixture of drum ‘n bass and Gillian Welch, but on Valentine’s Day I decided to temporarily emerge from social isolation to go to Puerto Vallarta, a Mexican restaurant located mere steps from the ultra-glam Indian Valley Shopping Mall (complete w/ Spencer’s), with a group of friends.

Puerto Vallarta is currently ranked 16th out of 90 restaurants in Newark, OH on Trip Advisor. Users have described it as “kind of dumpy” and “they don’t throw taco seasoning on everything”. It was known to Denison University students as having cheap and boozy margaritas, and I did not hold back on inhaling more than the daily recommended value on this particular evening. (In fact, I even polished off the ones my friends were unable to down, because I lead a zero waste lifestyle!)

So on margarita number I-lost-count, longing for an even remote semblance of my past life in Argentina, I began chatting up our middle-aged waiter in Spanish. His name was Miguel, and he didn’t mind Ohio as much as I did, even if it was a little brutal in wintertime. By the end of the meal (which was liquid for me, minus a slight dusting of tortilla chips) I decided I would leave my new friend Miguel with my phone number so that we could continue our Spanish-speaking bond at a later date.

On the way home, I suddenly rolled down the window of my friend’s car, put on my sunglasses (it was nighttime, remember), and got very, very quiet. “Are you okay?” she asked, knowing I was most definitely not okay. Instead of answering verbally, I projectile vomited out the open window. (And because we were driving at 40mph, yes, there was back splash.)

I spent all of February 15th in a Wal-Mart parking lot cleaning both the interior and exterior of the car, cursing the day I was born, but also being thankful I didn’t eat any actual food since tequila bile is easier to remove than upchuck’t burritos.

A few days later I received a call from a number I didn’t recognize, and when I listened to the voicemail, I heard, “Hola Megan, habla Miguel.” I did not want to be reminded of all of the things, so before listening to any more of the message I deleted it.

Poor Miguel tried to ring me back several more times that year to no avail.

I never went back to Puerto Vallarta. (At least I don’t think I did. Maybe ask Miguel.)

In short, enjoy the holiday, but don’t be dummies like us!

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