The alcoholic blackout is an experience common to many college students. You go out for a few drinks with your buddies, have a good time, and suddenly you wake up on your bathroom floor with your pants around your ankles. Here's a rundown of how a typical blackout occurs:
9:00pm: Here's where it all begins. You've had a long week. You failed your Economics test, your hamster died, and to top it off your roommates forgot to buy toilet paper. This calls for a drink. You plan on taking it easy tonight though, so you open up a six pack and sit back on the couch to watch Family Guy. Family Guy isn't on, and since none of your roommates are home, you watch America's Next Top Model instead.
9:30pm: Your roommate, who has forgotten his key, pounds drunkenly on your door, giving you time to zip up your pants and turn off the scrambled porn channel. "DUUUUUDE get ready we're going to party!" You tell him you'd like to, but" but what, you fucking pussy? Get your jacket and let's go.
9:50pm: You arrive at the party. Seems to be a good crowd, fair amount of cute girls, and anyways there's lots of booze. Your liquid courage tank is still rather low, so you stick to your usual crowd of friends and make comments about the "hot piece of ass" that you don't have the balls to talk to. Someone offers you a tequila shot, but you refuse, as you have to wake up early for work.
9:51pm: You slam a double tequila shot, because you're a man and men don't wake up early for work. That nagging voice in the back of your head gags on the sweet Mexican Firewater. That'll shut him up.
11:15pm: For what seems like the tenth time (because it is), you tilt your head back and pour some clear stuff down your gullet. You don't know what you're drinking anymore, it could be peroxide as long as it gives you that nice warm feeling in your stomach. That's an ulcer forming, by the way.
11:45pm: This is primetime. You're definitely drunk, but you're still in control of your actions. You're charming, witty, confident, and relaxed. You're making new friends, getting numbers, maybe even catching the eye of that "hot piece of ass." Now would be a good time to stop drinking. You use your impeccable logic and decide that, if ten shots made you feel good, twenty shots will make you feel twice as good.
12:00am: The guy doing the shitty Dave Chappelle impersonations is starting to piss you off. You consider kicking his ass, but get distracted when you spill half a beer down some girl's cleavage.
12:15am: The blackout begins here. The following three or four hours are, in your mind, completely unaccounted for. You probably did several or all of the following: threw up in someone's car, house, or mouth; urinated on yourself; broke a priceless heirloom, or at least a fish tank (RIP Goldy); walked home barefoot, through the shadiest neighborhood possible; got naked; lost your wallet; tried to fight a group of three guys who didn't beat you to a bloody pulp because they felt sorry for you. Whatever happened, rest assured that you pissed a lot of people off.
11:00am: You wake up, thinking you didn't drink too much because you don't have a hangover, when in fact you're still drunk. Don't worry, the hangover will come soon. You still think you went to a great party and went to bed around one o'clock, even though you can't remember how you got home or why there's digested pizza on your shoes. Enjoy your ignorance while it lasts, because your mom has some questions about that phone call at four in the mourning.
So that's about it. The details may vary, but blackouts are like religions; as Reverend Lovejoy says, they're all basically the same. Unless you're a girl, in which case let's just say you're going to have trouble maintaining that figure over the next nine or so months.