People do strange things under the influence of alcohol.

Some like to fight, others love to dance. I imagine, were I ever to drink (which, of course, has never happened as I am under the age of 21 and a responsible, law-abiding citizen who does his homework and never, ever throws snowballs at strangers), I would run around campus hugging random strangers and yelling things like ‘kick her in the balls.’

Others respond to alcohol consumption with more alcohol consumption. Everyone has a friend like this – the guy you see passed out on your couch at 4 a.m. every Saturday with a half-eaten calzone on his chest and a hand-drawn phallus on his forehead. He’s the first person you start pregaming with at night and the last one to turn in the next morning.

My roommates and I have one friend in particular who fits that description. He wakes up the morning after a night out in a strange location, usually in or around our room. This weekend, he was discovered in the fetal position like a lost puppy outside our door at 3 a.m., presumably passed out after attempting to urinate/vomit on my roommate’s bed. Again.

To some people, such behavior represents a dangerous pattern of binge-drinking and liver damage. They tell him to slow down, take better care of himself and, for Pete’s sake, stop peeing on their front lawn.

But to us, he’s a legend. His exploits give us endless joy and epic stories the next morning. A night out with this guy is always memorable. If you can remember it.

The best part of a night on the town with the ‘Life of the Party’ is spending the entire next day trying to piece together the night before. More often than not the biggest surprises happen when we tell him stories about himself: ‘Wait – that actually happened? I thought that was a dream! At least now I know how I ended up with that tattoo … but not why it says ‘Tyrone’…’

It seems like every Sunday morning has at least one moment like that. He stares at us in wonder as we entertain him with stories about his wasted alter-ego over an omelet at brunch. Usually it takes at least one corroborating witness and a couple incriminating text messages to convince him we’re telling the truth. Inevitably, he’ll concede the point and admit he had no idea where he was at 2 a.m., and could have easily stolen a street sign, stripped in public, solicited a hooker named Tyrone, etc.

Now, do not confuse my admiration for this friend with my condoning binge-drinking. On more than one occasion, I have endured harsh ridicule for advocating on behalf of his liver and self-respect.

Rather, what makes this guy so special is his willingness to go farther than any of us would otherwise think possible. Every group of friends needs someone like this: the person who says ‘Let’s do it live!’ when everyone else wants to turn back.

For some groups, that means having a friend who’s willing to approach a group of cute girls at a party when everyone else is too scared. For others, it means having a wingman when you nail a random meter maid with a snowball to the back of the head.

For us, it means spreading newspaper on our floor every Saturday to facilitate the cleanup effort for when our buddy inevitably mistakes our trash can for a toilet. Regardless, it’s always worth the extra stress to be around someone who pushes you that extra mile.

Unless you’re out of Febreze. Then he needs to crash outside.

Danny Fersh is a sophomore broadcast journalism major and the humor columnist. His columns appear every Wednesday. If you need a place to crash, he’s saving Daily Orange Pulp pages for the rest of the semester to lay them outside his door or clean up vomit. He can be reached at dafersh@syr.edu.