When I had my punk rock apartments in Sliverville every now and then someone would show up who thought they could drink with the rest of us. It was the best of entertainments.
One of those people was Gene. He was from the neighbourhood and knew our bark was worse than our bite. He brought a couple cases over one night because he had seen us arrive at lots of parties identically prepared. He puked all over Henrik's black leather jacket his new girl friend had just bought him for his birthday.
Henrik said, "I'm going to kill that motherfucking puking machine."
From then on Gene was known as Gene, Gene The Motherfucking Puking Machine.
We drank the rest of his beer and puked on the balcony of the people who lived below me.
We could handle our beer.