Nice To Meet You, Mr Goon Sack

Nice To Meet You, Mr Goon Sack

Recently, I was lucky enough to be introduced to a good friend of the hobo family, Mr Goon Sack. As it’s so cheap (I’m talking $10 for 4L), it is very popular within the community of impoverished travellers and Australians. As a New Zealander, I had managed to go nearly two decades without having made its acquaintance, and after hearing the appeal of this inexpensive and reliable beverage, I was eager to see what bad decisions we could make while in Byron. What I found is that goon is the silver sack from hell, filled with horrid wine only consumed for the sole purpose of getting plastered.

My expectations of the night were as follows – pashing long-haired Byron babes, dancing on tables, pashing Gemma, pashing more Byron babes, then waking up on the beach being spooned by one or more hunks.

My night actually went as follows – drinking approx. 8L of red goon, flailing about in the taxi, projectile vomiting out of the taxi three times, not pashing anyone, trying to pash the 45-year-old taxi driver and waking up with genuine belief that someone had shat in my mouth.

The evening started off well, with good chat leading to stories of sex and drinking out of a shoe… the usual. After sinking more than enough goon through straws, it was time for town – meaning Cheeky Monkeys, where the dancing on tables and pashing could commence. This was also conveniently enough the time when my memory loss began and my hopes of pulling that night went out the window, along with my dignity. I have been filled in on the details of the taxi ride: it was fun for everyone to see me attempt the tactical spew. After my failed attempts, I made the mature decision I was ‘That Girl” and called it a night. But not before projectile-vomiting red goon and rice out of the taxi. Three times. This was not my proudest moment, especially after my high hopes of being crowned tonsil-hockey champion.

Not only is goon cheap and nasty, it also has other lovely qualities too, one of these being the pleasant surprise the next morning when you find vomit in your hair, but this time it’s red, making it a bit more decorative. But my favourite would have to be the stained-red booze poos that haunt you for the next few days, making you wonder if your body will ever really forgive you.


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