“You wanna be where everybody knows your name.” 99 times out of 100, this is the case. That one time you don’t? When you drink too many peach sangrias and eat too much Chex Mix during happy hour and puke into the urinal at the Cheers bar in Boston, creating an awful stink that won’t flush down. Everyone knows your name then, and it’s followed by words I can’t print here.

I moved to Boston two years ago but never found a close knit group of friends. On one lonely night a rerun of Cheers came on and it hit me — I’ll do exactly what the people in the show did and that’ll make me happy. So the next night, I went to the Cheers Bar on Beacon Street and settled in, just like Dr. Frasier Crane would have.

This but filled with puke.

This but filled with puke.


People were friendly, service was great — I had a peach sangria and it went down sugary smooth. It was immediately followed by another. As I drank, I picked out who would be my Coach and who would be my Cliff (I had to settle for a UPS delivery man, but it would work.) I pounded about eight sangrias before I thought to slow down, but by then it was too late. As I rushed to the bathroom, I held in the oozing stomach mash with one hand while pushing people out of the way with the other. I made it — but not to a stall, the urinal took the hit.

The already small bathroom was now down a piss receptacle but you know what was worse? The smell that wafted into the main bar. It was so horrid that they had to close for an hour to clean it all up. So — everyone knows my name at the Cheers bar (Francis) but they know it for all the wrong reasons. Maybe I should move to Seattle… I’ll go to a coffee shop and order Cappuccinos and argue with my brother (who actually does live there) about the opera? Or something? …How was that show relatable?

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