Every friend group has that guy, the normally calm, responsible adult who, under just the right (or wrong) combination of music, adrenaline, and terrible liquor choices, suddenly becomes a one-man sequel to The Hangover.
For us, that guy is Egg.
One person, several nicknames, and a single default setting: nuclear.
Foreshadowing at Its Finest
Looking back, I should’ve recognized the signs. Egg was giving off that energy, the kind of vibe where, if this were a movie, the music would shift and the narrator would say, “This is the moment everything went wrong.”
But at the time? We brushed it off.
Big mistake.
Six Shots to Midnight
Within the first 35 minutes of the tailgate, Egg had already downed six shots of Rumple Minze. Six shots. Of Rumple Minze. In 2025. Like it was prom night in 1994.
The moment the minty poison hit his bloodstream, you could see the transformation beginning:
- He felt the music
- He hit a shot
- He grabbed a beer
- Jacket came off
- Sleeves got rolled up
That’s Egg’s version of the bat signal. Except instead of calling a hero, it summons chaos.
I looked over and thought, “This is about to go south immediately.”
Spoiler: It did.
The Vanishing Act
Our seats were together, and we all headed toward the Bud Light Porch. Egg and his buddy kept texting:
- “Where are you guys?”
- “We’re headed your way.”
- “Still coming.”
They never made it.
We got random pictures from around the stadium like he was backpacking through Europe. No context. No direction. Just pure Egg.
The Fall of a Grown Man
Later, Egg's boy Dan calls Big D:
“Hey… we’re outside.
Egg keeps falling over.”
By this point the game was still going, but Egg was playing his own sport: competitive collapsing.
Big D picked him up and found what can only be described as a 51-year-old toddler. Egg was in the car repeating, “I’m so drunk… I’m so drunk…” like a broken animatronic at Chuck E. Cheese.
Big D had to put him to bed, set up his CPAP, and basically tuck him in like a drunk, mint-soaked child. Egg woke up the next morning like:
“Who set up my CPAP? What happened? Did we win?”
He remembered nothing.
He called his wife to confess.
He blamed Rumple Minze.
We blamed Egg being Egg.
A Ferrari With No Speed Limit
Egg is like a Ferrari.
Most of the year, he’s stored in the garage, battery tender on, dust cover over him, quiet, calm, safe.
But the moment he comes out?
There is zero chance he’s observing the speed limit.
There is zero chance he eases into anything.
There is only full throttle until something explodes.
Rumple Minze was the key.
The music was the ignition.
And Browns Sunday was the empty highway.
The Lost Opportunity
The saddest part? Typically, Egg is ELITE at talking trash to opposing fans. It’s a gift. A calling. A spiritual duty.
But this time?
Rumple Minze robbed us of the comedy gold.
There were plenty of Ravens fans he could’ve absolutely cooked, but Egg was too busy chasing leprechauns outside the stadium.
Tragic.
Security Didn’t Even Care
Big D eventually made it back into the stadium, found himself sitting front row in the Dawg Pound because it was so cold security had fully given up on life. At one point he looked at the field and genuinely wondered:
“Is that Shedeur out there? Are we playing?”
No one knows.
The whole second half is basically a fever dream.
Chaos, Taco Bell, and Hypothetical Fighting
Meanwhile, I was having my own meltdown later on. One guy yelled something about me needing a bucket, and suddenly I was ready to fight the entire row. Nate had to physically sit on me to stop me from going full WWE.
We finished the night with the Bear driving our drunk selves to Taco Bell—because nothing complements a Rumple Minze disaster like $28 worth of soft tacos.
Vegas? Absolutely Not. (But Also… Yes.)
We keep talking about taking Egg to Vegas.
Just to see what would happen.
Egg’s wife has made it clear that if we do, we’re both dead.
But there’s a part of Egg, deep down, that wants it. The same part that made him drive shirtless from Atlanta to Savannah once. The same part that rolls up his sleeves and stares danger in the eye.
The part that wants the Ferrari out of the garage.
Final Verdict
Egg doesn’t party often.
But when he does?
Buckle up.
Hide the Rumple Minze.
Warn local security.
And for the love of God, make sure someone knows how to set up his CPAP.
Because Egg is a character.
A legend.
A beautiful disaster in motion.
And honestly?
We wouldn’t have it any other way.
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