Posts Tagged ‘drinking’
Alcohol – specifically my consumption of it – is a running theme here. I have decided to quantify my drinking habits to put them into perspective. I have been drinking alcohol since I was 15 – roughly 12 years – but for the sake of the math I will be focusing specifically on the last 5 years. Read more
I walked into the bar alone. Cinqo de Mayo fell on a week night, and no one was returning my calls. Three feet through the door I ran into a kid I knew from around the neighborhood.
He turned small talk into a boring lecture about college. Art school fag. He moaned about being a walking cliche while I struggled to remember his name. I eyeballed the bar nervously, more interested in a drink than anything he had to say.
“So, uh . . . where are all the hot, straight chicks?” Read more
This week is my kid sister’s 21st Birthday. When she turned 16, I pulled a bottle of bourbon from my desk drawer and poured her a shot. She slugged it back, had a thoughtful moment, and described its flavor.
A natural . . .
For this one, I need to up the ante. However, I do not believe that anyone’s 21st should be a gut-sick mess. If you’re going to learn to drink, learn to drink properly.
One must know the rules.
I knew my plan was fucked when I got to the foot of the highway and realized the foot bridge across the river wasn’t where I thought it was. I adjusted my rucksack on my sun burnt shoulders and double-timed it across the street. I jogged up the next block, along the highway, squinting over traffic for any sign of the foot path.
No entrance there either.
I was lost. It was time to improvise. A wave of excitement washed over me. Thinking quickly, I remembered there was foot access to the railroad bridge. It was out of my way, but that was kind of the point.
Wally Balls is an old friend of mine. Big and I have know Wally since high-school. After a few years of community college, Wally moved to Rochester to attend RIT. Since then, I can count the number of times I’ve seen Wally on two hands.
A week ago I found out Wally was back in town. We got together for lunch and made plans to go out Saturday night. Unfortunately, a plan is just a list of things that never happen. I left several messages with Wally on Saturday morning. By afternoon he called me from the road to tell me he had left town early.
I was not happy.
It’s been a long week and I’m all out of clever. I’m going to fix it. Boiler Maker time.
Before I do I want to level a few words at you, General Public.
To every cunt in a Lexus, every slack-jawed shitheel in traffic, everyone turning left, every fuck who crosses against the light . . .
To every bitch who defines herself by her anorexic tits, her tangerine tan, her junk fucking jewelry, her stupid cell phone, her cunt fucking friends, her oversized sunglasses, or how well she (falsely) thinks she can suck a cock . . .
Every dick-jerk in an Ed Hardy T-shirt, every bug-eyed juicehead, every wanna-be yuppie cunt stock broker on his Blue Tooth . . .
To every bar owner that overcharges for piss-water liquor . . .
To every tumor farm who blocks the door to the bar so they can chain-smoke while they text all the people who obviously don’t want to hang out with them . . .
To anyone who plays hip-hop in a dingy, rat-fuck bar full of pugs and drunks . . .
STAY THE FUCK HOME!
St. Patrick’s Day is supposed to be a hard drinking holiday for serious drunks. I’m not talking about frat boys with a Keggerator and a chip on their shoulders. Serious drinkers buy whiskey by the case for home consumption.
Inevitably, St. Patty’s Day turns into a slop fest for the disingenuous among us. The faux-Irish pile into bars for Kegs and Eggs – the only day they ever wake up so early – strung with green beads and shamrocks and “Kiss Me, I’m a Dipshit” t-shirts. They’re as “Irish” as it gets!
And none of them have ever heard of James Joyce.
It occurred to me this morning just how much I take for granted. My privacy, for instance. I spend most of my time at HQ plugged into the Cloud via Broadband and Cable News. I can jerk off whenever I want, and never have to deal with the kind of moral ambiguities that I might face if I had been born a dicephalus twin.
It would be bad enough to spend your life waking up next to the same face, attached metaphorically at the hip by a wedding shackle. Imagine waking up next to the same face because you’re conjoined at the shoulder. I was reading about just such a person(s) this morning.
“The 18-year-old dicephalus twins have two spines, which join at the pelvis, two hearts and stomachs, three kidneys, two gall bladders and four lungs.
But they share one liver and ribcage and a nervous system.” – The Sun
I decided to compile a list of all the things that would be immediately queered by having to share a body with someone.
Get FKIN