At the end of the year, the varsity rugby team usually has its playoffs. This year my college had won and, being best friends with the captain, I was invited to a party to celebrate with bros, boobs, and booze.
About half way through the night, Captain Hancock came over and, trying to stay as calm as he could, whispered into my ear.
"Dude. I need to throw up."
"The fuck. Why are you telling me? Just fucking go do it in the bathroom."
"I'm the Captain. I gotta look cool y'know? Can you come like... help me throw up?"
Incredulous, I threw my arm over his shoulder in pretense of that "brotherly manhug thing" to help him to the restroom.
Once in, he tried to enter the toilets, only to find all three occupied.
"I... fuck man can't hold it any more." said Hancock.
"Just use the trash can."
"I can't... I gotta..."
Realize that Captain Hancock is 250lbs of 5'11 pure muscle that can send any human being flying with his pure velocity and mass. Somewhere around his 8th beer in, he seemed to have lost all sense of logic and, with it, his ability to gage his physical prowess.
Captain Hancock took three steps back and, before I could stop him, decided to full fly-tackle the third toilet door. The thundering sound of the wood cracking against the hinges was followed by the sound of a THUD as the wooden piece rampaged against what poor soul was enjoying his Saturday evening sitting on the john trying to shit away his fifth Corona.
"OW WHAT THE FUCK!" came the voice behind the door.
"What the fuck is going on?" said another.
Captain Hancock, now on the verge of losing his dinner, lunch and breakfast, peels away the fallen toilet door and dumped his otherwise fecal mass orally all over poor Reginald the Toilet Bloke. Except it wasn't a one time clean projectile vomit - It was a sequence of stop and goes.
"What the fuck! Dude. What the fucking fuck!" said the bloke with the pants around his ankles.
By the time it had ended, Hancock finally realized what he had done and a look of utter failure came to his face. He took three step back and, trying to sound as cool as he could, asked me "Dude. Fuck.. what should I do?".
Sarcastically, and relatively amused at this situation, I suggested "Well. Why don't you just punch him in the face too."
Hancock took one good look at me, ran towards the toilet, and gave Reginald a jaw-breaking good night whose crack echoed through the barren walls of the toilet.
Hancock ran out of the washroom, leaving me stunned, greeting the other toilet-tenders as they stepped out to watch the scene in front of them - A man, covered in vomit, laying unconsious, on the floor, with his pants around his ankles, next to a toilet bowl of his Corona-laden fecal matter.