AnonymousCoworker

You know what I really hate? I hate it when people blog about how drunk they got the previous weekend/evening. “Oh, look at me, I drank so many beers that the hospital sold my urine to Michelob.” I’m so tired of hearing about how you got drunk on Friday/Saturday/Your Birthday/Your cousin’s bris. Many people have been drunk before, and drunk people are always the same. They’re stupid, but they think they’re funny, and they expect everyone else to find it hilarious that they made pants pudding when alcohol rendered their bowels a sphincter-aversive poop-cannon. Well, guess what? Nobody likes hearing about your stupid, drunken escapades. Go back to praying to your porcelain god.

Sorry about that. I just needed to rant a little. Anyway, I got pretty fuckin’ drunk this weekend. I wasn’t trying to; it just kind of happened. My family was having a surprise party for my dad’s 60th birthday and it was my job to keep him busy all day long. So we worked on a ‘lectrical problem in my shed while the rest of my family got my parent’s house ready for the party. I hadn’t had any breakfast, and lunch was only soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, (which makes ACWF pretty much Glen Burnie’s worst housefiance, and that’s saying something) so my crap factory was pretty empty.

After working in the shed all day, taking a trip to the dump, and other tactics to stall my father’s homeward journey, I was hungry. When I got to the party I snacked; and I drank as I snacked. Then I learned that all the food being cooked on the grill was made from a delightful melange of bovine spongiform encephalopathy, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, Escherichia coli, and a few bull anuses, I realized that I wouldn’t be eating any substantial food. What? Beef is gross.

The snacks were delicious, but not satisfying, so the snacking began to taper off, and the drinking began to taper on. At the height (length? girth?) of the tapering I was surrounded by my dad’s brother, nephew, friends, and neighbors, and I was going on and on about how my dad is a dirty hippie because he has an electric lawnmower. I must have thought I was some sort of Stephen Colbert, but I probably sounded more like that CALLATTing cock-knocker Carrottop.

I vaguely remember Mokie telling me ACWF had driven home in irritation and disgust after I ignored and abandoned her for about an hour (or more). Then, I’m told, I got into Mokie’s car for him to take me home whereupon I grabbed a small object from the back seat and threw it at the front of the car. It bounced off the dashboard and hit my grandmother, who happened to be riding shotgun. I am a terrible grandson.

Once I got home, my now utterly pickled brain decided it would be a good idea for me to do some push-ups: I had forgotten to do my daily set of push-ups that morning. Ten push-ups into the set my arms were already weakening… and then my nose began to bleed.

I called downstairs to ACWF and asked her to bring up some carpet cleaner. She thought I had vacated the evening’s yum-yums from my up-top hole (a polite euphemism for vomiting that I’m trying to work into the vernacular) and was relieved to learn that only two drops of blood had actually made it from my nose to the carpet. However, to hear her recount the story the next day, “there was blood everywhere”.

I then spent the next few hours in a slow transition from consciousness to booze-coma as I watched TV, decided to sleep on the floor, then somehow awoke to put myself to bed.

I post this not as an attempt to get you to chortle at my apparent inability to maintain any semblance of self-control, but so that I can remember a) why it’s important not to drink so much, and b) why I hate reading about other people’s stupid drunkenness. Hopefully you can learn a lesson from this as well: that lesson is “vacated the evening’s yum-yums from my up-top hole” should be used in place of the word “vomit”.

Epilogue: I called my grandmother to apologize; she yelled at me for apologizing, and told me that she knew I was just having a good time. She informed me that I am STILL her favorite grandchild (suck it, bitches) and that I should come visit her. I hope this is not a ruse for her get back at me by pummeling my crotch with her feeble, arthritic, liver-spotted hands.