Four friends assigned watch for New Year’s Eve managed to talk themselves out of standing duty. They had found several poor 18 year-old E-2’s with no shot of having any fun or any chance of getting laid. These sad E-2’s were so desperate for any notion of happiness, they would do just about anything for a tiny spark of joy. The cost of that joy? Two large pizzas and a bottle of Mountain Dew. Who knew that doing the Dew would save the four friends’ New Year’s Eve?

One friend named Jon made an additional sacrifice and agreed to stand the 8am quarterdeck watch on New Year’s Day, but only if everyone paid his entrance fee to whatever shit-hole dive-bar they decided to visit. Adding the cherry on top, he offered to drive.

This was an insanely generous offer, but he did not care since he could not drink due to taking antibiotics for a staph infection. Everyone rejoiced, as they now had their liberty and a designated driver to transport them to Pacific Beach. There was great joy in the air and all had merry hearts.

Ecstatic at the prospect of drinking heavily and hooking up with some ugly-to-mediocre looking girls, the friends decided that maybe they should do something special for New Year’s Eve. Rather than spend their evenings holed up in their traditional crappy dive-bar, they decided that they should pay the extra $100 and upgrade their evening to a more classy joint like the Tavern at the Beach sports bar. Upon further investigation, the friends learned that not only would the extra $100 allow them to drink their faces off at an open-bar, but they’d even get a complimentary glass of champagne. It was shaping up to be a classy night, indeed.

All throughout the day, the friends talked about all the hot girls they would meet. Then they questioned why there were never any hot girls at the dive-bars they usually frequented. They couldn’t be sure why, but maybe it was because all the hot girls in San Diego did not like all the shitty military-dive-bars the four sailors usually threw-up in.

Excited at the idea of a classy New Year’s Eve filled with hot girls and champagne, the four friends decided that they wouldn’t start the evening with their traditional 8 shots of Jagermeister. This sacrifice would certainly ensure that they would hook-up with all the hot female astronaut-lawyers at the bar.

After putting too much gel in their close-cropped hair and covering themselves in absurd amounts of Drakkar Noir—60% of the time, it works every time—the friends headed out to the Tavern at the Beach, arriving in Pacific Beach at 730pm. Since it was early, they parked right out front. Inside the bar, silver streamers hung from the rafters, the blue lights gave off a clubby vibe, and the bar was utterly empty.

This excited the friends because now they could drink in earnest without having to fight for the bartender’s attention. Forgetting their earlier pact to take it easy, they discussed ordering 8 shots of Jagermeister when the bartender arrived. They paid Megan, their hot surfer-girl bartender, for the evening’s festivities and Megan chatted them up as she opened a round of Miller High Life’s. New Year’s Eve required both French champagne and the champagne of beers. As the boys sat on their stools, debating Jagermeister, Hurricane Handsome pulled in front of the bar driving his stupid yellow jeep. This was an ominous sign.

While Hurricane Handsome was the four friends’ favorite junior officer, mostly because he would pick up their bar tabs, he also presented a twofold problem. One, he was insanely handsome and would likely suck all the hot female astronauts into his orbit. And two, very much like a hurricane destroying Florida’s Panhandle, he was very good at destroying livers.

He parked his stupid yellow jeep next to Jon’s bland Camry, hitting it as he parked, and then came inside. The young sailors high-fived him and welcomed the “sir” to sit. He sat down beside them and Megan immediately gave him her full attention. He ordered six boilermakers. The whiskey he wanted was not included in the all-you-can-drink special. Megan gave it to him for free anyway.

Hurricane Handsome handed out the Boilermakers. Everyone, including Megan, accepted one. Jon declined. Hurricane Handsome glared. Jon shuffled on his heels and explained that he was on antibiotics for a staph infection. Besides, he said, he was the designated driver. The friends convinced Jon that if he had only one Boilermaker now, he would be perfectly fine to drive in several hours. Jon agreed.

********

Jon shot awake in his idling car. He grabbed his chest like he had been zapped by a defibrillator. Heat blasted from the Camry’s vents. The radio blared Red Hot Chili Peppers. The dashboard’s clock blinked 645. Jon dry heaved.

Hurricane Handsome’s stupid yellow jeep was gone, as were all the cars that had been parked along Garnet Avenue. Jon lowered the music and rubbed his temples. Keys in hand, he was about to shut off the car when he blurted, “Oh shit.” He flipped his reclined seat upright and threw the car into drive.

It was a white-knuckle drive despite Jon refusing to speed one mph over the limit. He had to glance several times before changing lanes and he tried not to swerve as he focused on the blurry road. Arriving at base, he quickly changed into uniform, chugged a Gatorade, dry-heaved again, and hurried to the quarterdeck.

Hurricane Handsome’s stupid yellow jeep was parked out front. Jon glanced at it curiously then made his way inside for the watch turnover. He looked over the log book as the 18 year-olds left. His stomach grumbled. One of the 18 year-old’s took pity on him and informed him that there was some stale pizza in the back along with some flat Mountain Dew. “But don’t go inside the side-office,” he said. “Why?” Jon asked. “Just don’t,” was the reply.

Alone on the BUD/s quarterdeck, Jon straightened the replica of General Maximus’ Gladiator helmet, the plaque reading, “Were you not entertained?” Jon’s stomach groaned and he thought maybe some stale pizza would help settle it. He found the box and was about to eat a slice of dried gelatinous cheese when he heard a moan from the side-office. He peeked inside, there was Hurricane Handsome, naked in all his glory, along with Megan the bartender.

Jon was about to wake him when he heard the outside door open. He turned the corner to see the Commanding Officer entering the quarterdeck. “Attention on deck!” He yelled.

The C.O., in all his wisdom and goodwill, had decided to visit base that New Year’s morning as a way to spread good cheer, because nothing spreads good cheer like a visit from your Commanding Officer. The C.O. smiled and motioned for Jon to stand at-ease when what sounded like a light crashing to the floor emanated from the side-office. The C.O.’s ears perked like a wolf’s and he rounded the quarterdeck’s front desk. Jon looked at the man who could destroy his future and threw-up all over his shoes.

The rage burning in the C.O.’s eyes reached DEFCON 2 when Jon quickly pulled out his limited-duty chit from his side pocket. He explained that he was sick with a staph infection and that the medicine had made him ill. The CO’s eyes softened, and he gave a knowing nod. “Alright, son,” he said, before leaving. “Now clean that shit up.”

The front door shut and Jon watched as the CO shook puke from the side of his white shoes. Hurricane Handsome snuck from the side-office with bartender Megan in tow. He crept to the front window, waiting for the CO to drive away, then he turned to Jon. “I owe you a case of beer,” he said, before creeping outside. And as the door slowly shut behind him, he turned to say, “Happy Fucking New Year.”

And that’s the story why you shouldn’t drink boilermakers on New Year’s Eve. Unless you do, because they’re awesome. Happy fucking New Year’s, amigos.