February 15, 2009


Holy shit, I'm drunk.

It's my day off. Or...one of my days off. A Thursday. Whatever.

As I take attack upon my keyboard, I don't really have much to say in terms of another socio-political rant. I'm also tired of talking about the fetid mongoloids that come into the bar. I felt I was entitled to let loose a little bit. Become that person that I so loathe in my establishment.

I decided to just drink Ketel One and Hornitos. From the bottle. This may or may not be a cry for help.

My plan was to keep drinking until I thought of something funny to write about. And I haven't. So, I just kept drinking. Which, in and of itself became kinda funny.

So, I tried to keep a mental log of my thoughts and activities. By mental log, I mean what I extracted through the addled haze. I refuse to accept responsibility for the authenticity, because my blood alcohol hovers somewhere near an Irishman on St Patrick's Day.

9:17PM: I'm really bored and have almost next to nothing to do. I decide I'm going to have a few cocktails. I hear the baby next door start crying. I tell myself it's only a coincidence.

9:39PM: I fart so loud, I hear my neighbors laugh. Which in turn makes me laugh and turns into a machine gun anal outburst. Apparently I have no shame. Or class. I head to the toilet just in case.

10:06PM: Being just above functionally retarded, I decide to pour myself another shot and a sip from the bottle. This is the beginning of The Decline toward infantile behavior. Again.

10:21PM: I talk to a Jewish friend online and ask him about an anti-semitic slur on TV. He says he's never heard of it. I spend the next twelve minutes using that term in various permutations associated with his name. I no longer have a Jewish friend.

11:04PM: After missing my mouth and dumping my drink into my lap, I go downstairs to make myself another cocktail. I discuss the finer points regarding Padres ace Jake Peavey's pitching mechanics and my belief that he may be heading for elbow surgery. With Bubba. A yellow lab.

11:44AM: While watching an episode of Three's Company about Jack Tripper growing an mustache, I consider growing a push broom over my upper lip. I have a feeling I've developed brain damage.

11:59PM: I watch a docudrama about Def Lepppard on VH-1. I remember a joke. What has nine arms and sucks? Def Leppard. I'm a jerk.

12:07AM: I call my younger brother Chris to tell him he's an asshole for hitting me with a wiffleball bat when he was nine. He sighs and tells me to grow up. I vow revenge.

12:19AM: I spend fifteen minutes discussing Jake Peavey's career and his obvious path towards the Hall of Fame. I rail on about his seemingly impervious ability to avoid injury. Bubba licks his butt. I personally feel I won the debate.

12:42AM: As I'm walking downstairs, I flub the last few steps and eat it at the bottom. After I'm finished laughing/cursing, I walk to the kitchen to make another drink and stub my toe on the fireplace. Sailors should take notes on how to curse from my tirade.

1:07AM: I convince myself I can speak Swahili. I also convince myself I should start a movement towards speaking this African language. I call my friend in Colorado. He tells me I should hit myself in the head with a rock. Pencil him in as secretary of defense for my cabinet.

1:34AM: Stumble and bumble my way to the restroom. I cringe at the hideous creature in the mirror and make my way to the toilet. I'm not going into detail, but suffice to say my aim wasn't spot on.

10:04AM: I wake up on my floor. My TV is showing a sneering Kevin Bacon in Footloose and my laptop sits dutifully next to my head. I'm not sure how I got there. I do have a sneaking suspicion why I feel like a bag of ass though.

Oh Hornitos..I thought you were my friend. E Tu, Ketel One?