Sunday, January 22, 2012

Area man's drunk drought broken

Before last night I have not been stumbling drink since about June 2008. I generally don't drink anyway, unless I am at a gathering where drinking is happening, as drinking plays merry havoc with my guts. And if I'd stuck to the shandy plan—yes, I drink them, they're delicious; it's basically palatable beer—I would not have gotten so moronically, stupidly drunk. But when the first shandy landed I felt a swell of gas in my tumtum (1) and knew my IBS would flare. 

So ... I started drinking neat spirits. At first it was a 30-year-old port in celebration of its owner D--- turning 30, the gathering being a Heroes and Villains themed costume affair for his birthday (2). Then it was Double Black Johnny Walker—it tasted like smoky medicine. Then it was C---'s Red Label Johnny Walker, which, being half-cut at that point, I didn't bother asking I could have (3). I drank the latter out of a small vase I found in D--- and M---'s glasses drawer, though it had a petite handle so it could have actually been a drinking vessel.

At any rate I got shouty loud drunk and pretty much took over the couch area with bizarre Hitler-esq rantings in between boring the tits off one of D---'s lovely colleagues. C---, being a mischievous hairy prick, recorded some of it on his iPhone. He gleefully replayed snatches of it to theWife when he came around this morning to check on me. I was embarrassed and had to hide where I couldn't hear my droning drunk voice. 

I was so far gone that when it came time to get me home I had to have helpers go with me to help me down the stairs and into the cab. They even came with me, which came in handy as I avoided the soiling charge by their ensuring the taxi pulled over so I could spew onto the side of the road. 

That taxi-bourne spew is actually the last thing I remember. Apparently I self-dakked in the doorway of the house in an effort to get my keys out then stood for half an hour next to the toilet in case of spews. When I was put to bed by the suffering theWife I later sprawled out on the floor by the bed with my head resting on a tray-like bucket in case of further wrong-way-Jose throatal distress. 

When I awoke I felt terrible. Head was okay(ish) but my body felt like one great aching bruise. Not even a shower perked me up. 

I know I remember I had a good time, uber drunk people often think that, and C--- assured me I wasn't being the shouty ranty prick that Mikey's sober brain re-conjured on waking this morning, but I'm pretty sure that would have sucked to be forced to listen to me, especially for those people who'd I just met. I feel especially bad for the kewl bearded dude who turned up in a Professor Moriarty costume complete with half-top hat that I drunkenly slandered all night as being instead that of Abraham Lincoln—'See?! Abraham Lincoln agrees with me!' being I suspect I thing I said during rants when all he did by way of agreeing with me was to be polite and sit there and listen. 


I know people have theories about hangover cures (4); the greasy breakfast or hair of the dog. But for me the best I felt was after my sesh on The Purgatory Cart (5), the 20 minute ride causing me to break out in a cold sweat

As I limped from the shed a cool breeze washed over my half-naked sweaty form, further cooling me from my ride. It was nice. It was certainly a nicer experience than when I'd been riding and looking down at my harry-high worn PJ pants during the ride and thinking my cinched in gut fat looked all the world to be a front bottom. An actual secondary bottom of stomach fat, as opposed to a British hoo hoo.  

Finally big ups to M--- and C---  for not only seeing me home but checking up on me the next day by phone and in person (6).

It almost makes up for the shabby treatment of phone-recording my drunken ranting...

UPDATE: I just remembered ... I also took over the iJukebox and loaded the play list with songs that I liked from D---'s vast selection of music. Bad Mikey ... Even though D--- said anything I selected was okay because it wouldn't be on his computer if he didn't like it there were some unusual choices made; like Ace of Base and 'Docterin' the Tardis'.

(1) Attention Arctic wilderness survivors. If I am asleep in the snow do not attempt to store fallen comrades in me. 
(2) I forgot about the costume part. P---, who was still safe to drive, took 20 minutes out to dash back to his place for costumes—P--- plays live role-playing games and has a chunk of kewl clobber—and returned as Ming the Merciless (2a). He brought a kewl hooded long-coat for me, and I think he may have even given it to me, and someone put some steam punk goggles on my head. So I kind of looked vaguely villain-ish. Not heroic, or indeed, anti-heroic. Perhaps a comic foil or side-kick? But let's face it, my bod can't write hero cheques. Just not going to happen.
(2a) Being drunk and therefore with heightened narcissism I used D---'s nearby iPad to dial up a a Ming-themed blog post and demanded P--- read it. To his credit he politely read the entire thing, his lightly furred chest on display via the V of his Ming costume, but it was probably because I was staring at him with an unsettling drunken intensity.
(3) I however paid him $20 for the half-bottle I consumed.
(4) Medically speaking it's likely simple dehydration that causes hangovers and the best way to avoid one is have water between drinks or sip water afterwards or during the night (if one is able to). 
(5) An exercise bike technically owned by the foul temptress Cass but liberated by me in a Tom Cruise style from-the-ceiling dangle. And she doesn't even know I have it; AH HA HA HA HA etc.
(6) And of course to theWife who had to wrangle me to the end-room bed despite looking after a sick child in her own bed. Poor little Chooky!


  1. Is THAT where my exercise bike went?! Curse you, Tom Cruise!

  2. I bet that's not the first time those words have been uttered...

  3. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

    1. Alas I had to delete as it shows my face. Area blog is anonymous! PS I now have to use high tech to locate and punish the testes of the Zapruder figure that took it.

    2. D'oh! I just realised you zinged me. Touche, sir. Touche.


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