Classic Ass #002: Alcohol

Every Saturday, one of us will post a blog post from our past in order to let you really get to know us... and laugh at us. Gerry thought it was going to be only him posting this, but then he promptly forgot the tradition he attempted to create. Once again, as the glue that holds the writing on this blog together, I present you my first classic post. This was a little story I wrote called "Alcohol".

Alcohol.

Nausea.

Dehydration.

Humiliation.

Pounding headaches.

Ah, the beauty of a Hangover.

You know how it is. The night before, you start with something light.

A glass of Cabernet at dinner.

A beer.

A couple of shots of Jaeger.

You’re sitting in the bar with your friends talking about the tight ass on the chick you went out with last night, bitching about your Neanderthal boss, staring at the waitress's ass, having a great time when said waitress comes back, leans over to show you her silicone udders, smiles and offers you another round of poison.

Sure, you’ll have another.

Why not?

You are gonna make it an early night anyway, got to get into the office tomorrow. Just one more and you’ll be in a cab, on your way home with a nice buzz in no time. Might as well make the last one a good one, so you order a nice Scotch.

Just as you’re taking your last sip, he walks in.

He goes by many names.

Tony, Mark, Matt, Bro- whatever alias he chooses for the night, his mission is clear: To get you loaded, stupid and in the worst shape possible.

The sonofabitch is grinning from ear-to-ear, but you know the deal. He’s the heavyweight champion of bad ideas, biting the ear off of any chance you had of leaving the bar in a respectable (or live) state.

Within minutes, you’re shooting the shit and remembering your hazing days. You are discussing one of your employee's gay tendencies when, what is this? Tequila shots!

You refuse.

He calls you a pussy.

You tell him to shut the fuck up. You can’t do tequila shots!

You have to work tomorrow.

He looks upset and hits you a little too hard for your liking.

You refuse again.

He questions your tolerance.

He insults your manhood.

Finally, he gets desperate. “It’s Patron” he says.

Translation: This round just cost me a good portion of my unemployment, dude.

What can you say to that?

You promise yourself you will be out of the bar in ten minutes, toast Satan himself and down the shot.

Fade to black.

The next morning, you awake to a wet, sticky pillow and what feels like a singeing laser burning your face?

Man, you are hot. Why are your clothes so musty?

You manage to get one eye open and then the other.

You want to get up, shut the blinds and turn on the AC, but something will not allow you to move.

Fear?

Pain?

The pounding of a sledgehammer in your head combined with the burning sensation in your esophagus?

Yes to all of the above.

Unable to learn from past mistakes, and who are we kidding? You have been here before.

You attempt to move. Your head won’t budge. Are you really trying? You think you are.

Again and again, you lift a little and plop your throbbing skull back onto a pillow covered in a gooey wetness you are praying is just drool.

Finally, you give up and close your bloodshot eyes and start praying for recovery. If God will just let you feel better, you swear, you’ll never do this shit again. Oh, and you’ll throw in no more hookers as an added bonus.

You know. This time you mean it.

Really. C’mon, it is an even exchange.

He gets to have you sober and whore-less for all eternity and you feel better.

Wait. What if you are already in Hell? Hell would definitely feel like this! Come to think of it, you are boiling! Feeling like you are about to gag, you start fantasizing about water.

Anything to stop hacking up all of those cotton balls.

Eventually, you roll yourself over enough to fall off of the bed, and after a good half-an-hour of hugging onto the floor while the room took you for a ride, you manage to pull yourself up.

You vomit.

You moan.

You fall.

You cry.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

Unable to peel your semi-urine soaked pants off your body and desperate for relief, you crawl into the shower, half dressed and treat yourself to a good ol’ fashioned convict hose-down.

You are just not going to make it this time. You are not as young as you used to be. How did you make it through college?

Eventually you clean your sorry ass up and get dressed.

You order in some eggs, bacon, pancakes, hash browns, coffee and OJ from the Korean deli down the street and agree to pay them their thirty-dollar ransom. You drink your roommate's Gatorade (you’ll replace it) and lay on the couch, waiting for your greasy remedy.

The phone rings.

It’s Him.

Yeah, you know, last night was nuts.

Yeah, you kind of remember her coming in.

No, you don’t remember saying that.

Or that.

Oh shit, you definitely did not do that.

Suddenly, the wooziness returns and you are told to expect many-a-phone calls where random girls will be calling you a list of names that is reserved for an absentee father.

Yeah, as a matter of fact, your eye does hurt.

You hit who? What? Over a cab?!

You have to go.

This is too much.

You are done with drinking and with him.

It is time to grow up.

You were supposed to work today.

Overtime.

Catching up.

You hang up the phone and your food arrives.

You watch some "SportsCenter" and "Surreal Life". By six, you are feeling a lot better. By eight, you are back at 100%.

You are playing air-guitar to some Zeppelin when your old high school pal calls.

They are having drinks at the local hangout.

Naw, you’ll pass.

No, you drank last night.

You are just now starting to feel better.

Okay, okay.

“One drink,” you tell him.

“Cool,” he says, “I have to make it an early night anyway, I have to go into work tomorrow.”