Practically everyone I know loves to drink at least once in a while. Nothing can celebrate something great in your life, or get you out of a rut like a nice stiff drink of your choice. The problem with my drinking habits however is that I still can’t drink casually. Drinking one beverage automatically triggers the desire to drink until I get the pre-puke hiccups. I’d rather drink a stirred “beagle piss on the rocks” then be teased with a couple beers, only to be forced to abruptly stop pounding.

Casual drinking is for babies

I still drink to get fucked up. Not to sound cool, I’ve been drinking since I was 13. I have fond teenage memories of my brother and I stealing the same bottles of booze from my mom. When I’d try to steal some vodka, my drink would just taste like watered down Sprite. That bastard would always get to it first and fill it back up with some water. Vodka magically froze in the freezer thanks to us. Despite drinking for a while, I still black out on a regular basis. I know my limits but still find a need to push my limits towards retardation. Nothing positive ever comes from being blacked out. You either fuck a wildebeest, drive into a pre-school’s playground slide, or simply wake up confused in a jail-cell with a mustard stained wife beater and assless chaps showing your backwards underwear you have on. It’s always tough when the boxer dick hole exposes your asshole. Awful things like this are expected, considering that when you drink your ass off you are poisoning your body, but more specifically your brain. When you’re blacked out your brain gets pissed off and says, “Fuck this, you’re on your own buddy.” It takes a first class flight to a quaint tropical island called St. Blackouticus until morning. While your brain is on holiday sipping pina coladas by the pool, your body is left to fend for itself on autopilot.

Have a nice trip to Blackoutville

My all time worst black out was when I ate a piece of raw chicken. Well it wasn’t totally raw, I microwaved it for tops five minutes. The only way I know I microwaved and consumed the still clucking chicken is because my college roommate says I did. I only claim to have microwaved the chicken for tops five minutes because sober trends show that I’ve never microwaved anything for longer than that period of time. If you microwave a Hot Pocket for five minutes the molten acid cheese would melt your throat faster than the lower half of Grandma in Dante’s Peak. For those who aren’t familiar check this out. One of the funniest and finest moments in cinema history.

Any who, my roommate claims that he smelt hot sauce and thought I was reheating some wings after the microwave timer went off. When he saw what was on my plate, a brick of chicken covered in hot sauce, he gagged and ripped the plate out of my hands. Luckily I didn’t get salmonella poisoning because I had enough alcohol in my system to sterilize Michael Jackson’s old ball pit in Neverland Ranch.

Nothing a stomache full of gin can't cook

When I’m drunk and the night is progressing along, I start to become obsessed with two specific needs. All I start to think about is girls and food, in that order preferably. If I can’t get any action, and besides the fact that bringing them into my childhood room with my high school football “senior night” picture with my mom isn’t conducive to casual sex, I’ll usually settle for the bonco burger at whatever diner is closest. When I’ve been drinking, at around midnight my mind is telling me (quietly whispering) “pussy and food, pussy and food.”
“Man I sure would like to fuck this girl right here, but I wonder if that hot dog vendor outside changed that dog water in the last three days. I should probably go with the pretzel.”

Can't trust a 3 a.m. hotdog

When 4:00 A.M. rolls around, the former quiet whisper is now going off like a fucking base drum in my head. I turn into a crack head. PUSSY AND FOOD! PUSSY AND FOOD! By four in the morning my brain has peaced out and I have the blowup doll autopilot from Airplane controlling my body. However, this gives me the courage to actually start talking to some girls. “O Hey Michelle, I know your nickname is Slot Machine and all, but would you like to come back to my place, my folks are out of town. O too forward, sorry whore face, you want to come over for a drink or watch a movie.” Even when I’m drunk, I know that’s the code for fucking. If a girl agrees to come over and watch a movie, you are getting some. Stick to the classics guys. Odds are she’s seen something like Forrest Gump. Pop in that lovable moron to guarantee that she has seen the movie and won’t be focused on watching a movie she’s never seen before. If she isn’t focused on the movie you can talk through the whole thing and cut the bullshit by getting down to what you both came there to do. Back to being a drunk. If even the biggest of whores doesn’t want to fuck me while I’m boozed up, and I don’t go to the diner, I get creative in the kitchen. The other night I made myself goldfish with hot sauce and microwaved some cheddar cheese on top. You really reevaluate your life when you wake up and see the remnants of the disgusting drunk snack plate chilling on the floor back at you.

Like the geico ads, but instead of money, it's a pile of shit

Every guy is guilty of taking home slampigs when we’re trashed. As you can imagine several problems come from taking home unfamiliar girls. Morning wake ups with girls you vaguely remember giving anal to on the first date can obviously be awkward when both of you have come to your senses. Some guys can be complete dicks and tell the disheveled lass to hit the bricks sister. However, I still try to be a gentleman in these situations. The first order of business girls worry about is the walk of shame. Guys don’t give a shit. I’ll walk home with just a sock around my cock if it means I just got laid. I’ll Anthony Kiedis my way down the block giving over enthusiastic greetings to neighbors and doing cock pushups at every other bus stop.
Girls will usually ask for a t-shirt or sweatshirt to go home with in the morning. I don’t understand how a sweatshirt leading down to a short skirt and stilettos makes you look better, but fine. If it makes you feel better toots, go for it. The toughest thing is that it forces me to use my sweatshirt/t-shirt give away rating system. If the girl is decent and only has a hook nose, love handles, and slight salt and vinegar chip breath, I’ll give her a $15 Old Navy fleece in hopes of possibly one day getting it back. Maybe I’ll see it again, maybe I won’t, no big deal.

But, and I mean but, if I just sleighed a wildebeest, a savage creature from the north, I’ll just give it an Alaskan souvenir t-shirt with a wolf howling on it or my old boy scout shirt with the weblo patch still attached. Take it, I don’t want to see that shirt or your putrid face ever again.

I don’t mean to come off arrogant, this is how it works. It can also work the other way. I’m sure I’ve been some poor girls manpig before. There are girls who have definitely woken up next to me and said, “O fuck, not this Sponge Bob Square Pants looking bastard.” When I’m bombed I’ve come up with the theory that I have reverse anorexia. Regular old anorexic people see themselves as fat in the mirror despite being 85 pounds. While pregamming before I go out I’ll check myself in the mirror, and think I look pretty good. When I get pictures back I look like the abominable snow beast or an albino gorilla. My explanation the next day, I must not be photogenic.

A picture of me taken in the winter of 2007.

If you don’t have the one friend who will always drive you home bombed under any circumstances then the only other alternative is to drive yourself. Sometimes you have to drive home after a rough night. How else are you going to get home if you’re drunk? My dad sat me down when I was 17 and told me some great advice. If you’re driving hammered, just follow someone who looks like they know what they’re doing, preferably a minivan, at a safe distance. Great advice until your day drinking and follow a short bus home. Apparently people get weirded out when you repeatedly follow their kids into dead end culdesacs chugging Miller Lite nips while blasting Born in the U.S.A. To everyone who likes to throw them back, be careful. I like the sauce just as much as the next guy, but I’m not an idiot. I let my drunk cop buddy drive me home. Enjoy the great Jim Breuer’s take on mixing booze.