Author : Kara Mae Adamo.
So I’m driving down the road in the middle of Anchorage, casually flipping through the unfamiliar radio channels, when a phrase comes over the airwaves:
“…and guess what, this one didn’t happen in Florida…” said the delighted, enthusiastic and genuinely surprised radio host.
My skin crawls with excitement. Since my first month living in Alaska, I have heard rumors of a delightful little radio show that broadcasts throughout Anchorage. The show focuses exclusively on crazy shit that happens in Florida.
That means Florida is so collectively insane that people 4,000 miles away in the effing tundra cannot fathom it. It is a source of daily entertainment to hear what the most southern state in the lower 48 is up to.
This particular event occurred in Portland and is so ridiculous that the hosts of this show thought it ranked up there with Floridian shenanigans.
They have my attention.
So, here it goes.
We’ve all been there. You’re out partying and have a bit too much to drink—perhaps even get a little sick—and suddenly it’s time to go home. It is at this point that you are either a) smart enough to catch a cab, b) your phone is charged and you have the number of someone who can pick you up, or c) you have friends with you that are sober and observant enough to notice you shouldn’t be driving and wind up taking you home.
If none of the above applies, there is always the ole failsafe: Denny’s until you sober up.
Now, I won’t lie to you—I have had my fair share of Dude, Where’s My Car mornings. Hell, during my freshman year in college it was part of the fun: like a hung-over detective game where you piece together the events of the night before. But never have I ever been drunk enough to consider the following possibility.
After what he swears was a several-year dry spell without a single solitary drink, 27-year-old Justin Gilpatrick decided to indulge. It was one of those tell-tale nights of shots, laughing probably a bit too loud, and stumbling out the door at closing time.
Now, before we go further, I will grant Justin this: at least he didn’t drive. He had the good sense to know that his level of inebriation was deadly behind a vehicle and chose to sleep it off instead…
…in a recycling dumpster.
I am all for recycling and going-green, but really?
Here is the best part…he was so shit-canned that he managed to stay asleep despite the rattling sound of a Waste Management compactor truck pulling up to his little extended-stay hovel. He was deeply engrossed in the rich, comatose labrynth that is booze-inflicted sleep that he didn’t catch on that said compactor truck had lifted his dumpster up high in the air—nor did he realize that he was airborne for about five seconds while it tossed him directly into the compactor.
He managed to go through this thing twice before being rescued by the panicked and frankly bewildered Waste Management team.
He then tried to walk away, as if to say that he was perfectly fine and that it was just another good ole Friday morning in the dump-heap.
Eventually, they were able to bring him to his senses and convinced him to seek medical attention.
Our friend Justin sustained only minor injuries and isn’t being charged…probably because there really isn’t anything they can do to someone who has slept the night away in the trash and then gone through a compactor twice. No hangover or misdemeanor incarceration holds a candle to that.
Justin’s response, you ask?
“I will never drink again.”
If I had a dollar for every time…
Anyway, thought I’d share.