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?”

As if I hadn’t just insulted him, he pointed and walked across the bar.  He sidled up to a little co-ed – cute, dirty blonde – and wrapped his arms around her.  She sat at a table with some soggy looking poof.  Art Boi leaned in and whispered something to the Blonde, and pointed at me.

Her eyes lit up.  She waved me over.

I walked to her table and she pushed the chair out next to her with her foot.  As first impressions go, this was more auspicious than most.

“Alcohol would be good,” I said.  My version of an introduction.

Art Boi made proper introductions around the table.  The fat poof looked like he spent most nights crying and jerking off to Bauhaus.  We were one chair shy.  Art Boi stood.

“What’re we drinking?” I asked.

“Ooh, Jager?” she said.

“Be a sweetheart?” I pulled out a twenty, holding it across the table to the fat poof.

He looked hurt.  The blonde looked over at him.

“Oh, come on,” she cooed.

“Fine . . . ” he said, pushing himself away from the table.

“You drinking?” I said, looking up at Art Boi.

“No . . . ” he showed me the large X drawn on either hand in black marker.  He took fat boy’s seat.

“Oh, right.  Straight edge.”

I made small talk with the blonde.  Where do you go to school?  What’s your major?  What color panties are you wearing?

It was a thong, actually.  Pink.  She stood to show me the strap.  I was only being a smart-ass, if deliberately rude.  I couldn’t believe that worked.  Fat Boy returned with our shots.  Blondie slid into my lap so Fat Boy could sit.  She wiggled and snuggled up to me.

What God had I pleased?

“So, what did homeboy whisper in your ear?” I murmured.

“You’re hot . . . ” she stammered.

She giggled and reached down between my legs, feeling her way up my thigh.  She shifted her weight indelicately and palmed my crotch, rubbing me through my jeans.

Dear Penthouse Forum . . .

Then she turned to kiss me.  If kissing is a skill, she didn’t have it.  Her spit ran down my chin.  I could taste the alcohol on her breath.  I was only on my second drink.  My motivation faltered.

I had said less than a full paragraph worth of words to this girl.  It was actually happening – her squeezing reminded me – but I could hardly believe that this girl had just fallen into my lap.  I suspected I was committing a crime.

I made her show me her I.D.  She was 20 – or 21 – depending on which card I looked at.

Game on.

I stood her up and marched us to the bar.  The bartender was surprised to see me.  I hadn’t been around in months.  The next pair of shots were on the house, and I bought another double for myself.  I had catching up to do.

We hopped to the next bar.  Art Boi scored us a free round at the next bar, before scuttling off to parts unknown.  A few more drinks and a few more bars and Blondie was hanging on my arm for support.

I suggested calling it a night.

She suggested that we go back to her friend’s house.  I insisted on a cab until she told me where we were going.  I was parked two blocks away.  The walk to my car was longer than the drive to her friend’s apartment.

Stupidly, I marched us to my car.

Not a block later she was whining in my ear.  It’s cold!  Where’s your car?  Let’s call a cab to your car!

I dragged her the distance.  By the time I unlocked my doors, I hated her with every fiber of my being.  She fell into my passenger seat, and I rolled out of my space with surgical delicacy.  It was only a few more blocks to her friend’s apartment.  All back streets.  I multi-tasked between clutching, shifting, and removing her hand from my groin.

All of this while glancing frantically in my mirrors for cops.

We crash landed on a couch in the living room of a dank frat pad.  I was given a brief introduction to the leaseholder, who casually shrugged me the consent to fuck on his furniture.   He hit the lights on his way out.

I had barely sunk my teeth into Blondie’s shoulder, and a hand up her shirt, when Fat Boy reappeared.

“There aren’t any spare bedrooms . . . “

I groaned loudly, my noise barely muffled by her skin.

“What happened to the room you slept in last night?” she howled.

“Someone else is passed out in there . . . ” he muttered.

He said nothing else.  He was hammered, and he curled up on the adjacent couch.  My hand froze.  With all momentum lost, I unhanded her breast.  In the back of my mind, I was grateful not to be balancing on one foot, or counting to thirty.

Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three . . .

“I’m sorry,” she said.

I woke before she did.  We were spooning.  Sunlight filtered through the bedsheets that passed as curtains.  The room smelled like piss and puke.

My clothes were soaked with sweat.  Everything was damp, even the couch.  My arms were wrapped around her.  The crotch of her jeans was wet.

In a panic, I reached between us and checked my groin.  Still dry.

Fat Boy was stirring.  Before long, Captain Frat and a roommate stumbled  into the living room.  I was desperate to be anywhere else.  She didn’t even say good morning.

After the most awkward conversation of my life, I climbed over her and staggered out of the apartment.  Now that I was moving, the hangover began to throb.

Out in the cool morning air, I checked to see how much I had been peed on.  I scraped two bumpers dislodging myself from my parking space.  I didn’t remember her name.

The Rules are simple:

1. Don’t use coke.

2. If you use coke once, you’re a cokehead.

3. Never trust a cokehead.

She was not the prettiest woman I’ve been with, a middling 6 at best.  The way she dressed made matters worse – all jeans and sweaters – so I was pleasantly surprised when she peeled them off.  Her breasts were larger, her body curvier, than I expected.

What she lacked in curb appeal, she made up for under the hood.  Her sexual appetite was voracious.  Rodeo clowns aren’t this motivated . . .

I was working at a bar the night I met her.  I was loaded.  I had a rule against drinking on the job, but I wasn’t bouncing that night so I made an exception.

No one needs to be crisp to serve a drink.

She and her friend chatted me up.  I let them do all the work.  I gave her my number and forgot about her.  Later that night, I fucked the shot girl in the front seat of her car in full view of the security camera.

A week or so later I got a phone call, mid-shift.

“Are you working tonight?”

“Yeah,” I said, shouting over the bar noise.

I didn’t recognize her voice.  She sounded sexy over the phone.  I didn’t hang up.

“What are you doing after your shift?”

“Uhh . . . sleeping?  I’ve been up for  a couple days.”  I replied.

“What time do you get off?  You should come over . . . “

It was Saturday night.  I worked Friday night, stayed up all day, and I wouldn’t leave the bar until 5 am.  I was dead on my feet, having hallucinations about dozing off at the wheel.

“What’s the address?”

She lived an hour away.  I cursed and opened a Red Bull.

I finished my shift and closed out the bar, mopping up spilled beer and hopes and dreams.  The shot girl pawed at me a bit, but I pleaded fatigue and headed out to my car.

The drive was a highway blur.

“I’ll let you sleep,” she lied as she ushered me through the door by the arm.  She helped me out of my coat and pushed me toward the bedroom.  I collapsed face down, nearly out when I hit the pillow.

She crawled on top of me and ran her hands up my back.  She slowly rubbed and thumbed her way down.  My head swam.  Right then, at the brink of consciousness, she grabbed me by the belt and unfastened the buckle.

After 45 sweating minutes she made the mistake of getting on top.  I woke up, mid-coitus, with her still riding me.  She just smiled and kissed me and laughed.

She finished me off in her mouth.

The next time I opened my eyes it was mid afternoon.  She was dressed, leaning over me.

“Feel better?” she asked.

She was holding a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.  I sat up, still foggy, while she served me breakfast in bed.

She was in her early thirties, older than me, and divorced with no kids.  In hind-sight, there were red flags everywhere.  Indicator lights flashing across the dashboard.

I was younger and foolish and she had just fucked me unconscious.  I took the bait.

It went on like this for a few weeks.  She would call and I would burn up the highway.  One night she asked if I had ever had a threesome.  I hadn’t.  She called a friend and made arrangements.

The friend was below my taste, but if two fives make a ten then I was batting at least an eleven.  That has to be worth something, I thought.  Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan.

I arrived to find that the friend had too much to drink.  The wine was making her overly sentimental, and she whined for an hour about not wanting me to think she was a slut.

I exercised every fiber of tact I had, trying to woo her back, but it was no use.  We left her sitting on the papa-san, and retreated to the bedroom to fuck while she and the neighbors listened.

The whole affair was sordid.

We covered all of the important bases early on.  Neither of us were into exclusivity.  If the unthinkable ever happened, she informed me she would abort it without even telling me.

Check Oil Pressure.

Check Water Temp.

Eject.

She was a degree of jaded I had never encountered.  She hid it well most of the time, but things rapidly disintegrated into booze-fueled fuck-romps.  If I showed up at her door with a bottle of whiskey, we left a trail of clothes to the bedroom and drank while we fucked.  The sex was violent.

Then we went downtown.

She would mingle with the other regulars while I talked shit with the bartenders and completely ignored her.  A few drinks later she would sit at the other end of the bar, trying to pick up other girls.  Then we went back to her place and fucked again, or I would pass out drunk and she would ride me anyway.

. . .

Then she met Willy Pete.

It was New Years Eve and I had spent a week holed up at a friend’s apartment.  He lived in a dingy rat-hole by some country highway crossroads.  His living room was full of old couches and TVs, and for six days we had an uninterrupted bender.

We stayed up every night until dawn.  People came and went, bringing liquor and food.  Every day we woke up, drag-assed to the liquor store for a magnum of Fleischmann’s vodka and started over.  In the afternoon we watched every Arnold Schwarzenegger movie while I did chin-ups on the door frame.

At night we drank.

She called me early New Years Eve to ask if I had plans.  She was going to a party, but she was in heat.  I was an hour and a half from her apartment, and half drunk.  I was in no shape to go running for a booty call.  She asked for the address.

Less than two hours later we were parked on a roadside, fucking in the back of her car.

We headed back to the apartment.  She stayed for a drink, listening to Willy Pete explain the finer points of meth-head chemistry.  The subject of cocaine came up.

She had mentioned it before.  She teased me about the night I met her, how drunk I was, and admitted that she had been a little coked up that night.  This explained why she had driven an hour just to go to a bar.  She talked about her coke head past.

She left for the other party in her coke head present.

After New Year’s Willy Pete drank with us.  I quit the bar, and moved to a different place up the street.  I lost my Friday shift, but picked up some week-day time.  I would head to her place early Friday.  We fucked and showered before Willy Pete got out of work.  When he arrived we headed out to the local tavern.

The place was busier than usual.  An old friend of the owner’s was back in town, and the two of them were drinking heavily behind the bar.  Things got out of hand.  One of them offered me a bottle of Jack Daniels across the counter . . .

. . . and I woke up near dawn in her bed with a strange girl.

I had a searing headache and no memory of the night before.  She had dark hair and warm, pillowy D-cups.  She was girl-next-door cute.  She was snuggled up against me, wearing only a t-shirt and panties.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but, uh . . . who are you?”

She said her name was Liz.  She told me we did not have sex, although she wasn’t opposed to the idea.  She fondled me a bit, but I was struggling not to be sick.

Later that day, Willy Pete gave me the dirt.  After I blacked out at the bar, we ended up back at the apartment.  The two girls put on a floor show and afterward Liz came in to curl up next to me.

He didn’t mention the coke.

Things began to unravel.  I met more of her friends.  I was completely cold to her, except when we were fucking.  We went to a party at some rich, middle-aged businessman’s house.  I was the youngest person there.  He was an old friend of hers, a former employer.  He played an alpha-male buddy routine with me while she flirted openly with him.

Unsure of which one was trying harder to shame me, I ignored them both and drank his expensive liquor.  She palmed him a gram and he excused himself.

. . .

We took a detour one night on the way to the bar.  She turned down a dirt road and pulled up in front of some shitty modular home.  The nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile away, and she insisted I stay in the car.

I sat there, furious, replaying things in my head.  I resigned myself to suck it up, make it through the night, and leave early in the morning.

It was a miserable night.  Cold.  The bar was dead.  She was on her phone every ten minutes.  I came out of the bathroom and she was gone.  I got her voice mail several times and left no message.

When she finally called me back, she told me to meet her back at her apartment.  Willy Pete had arrived at the bar, my only consolation, and gave me a lift.

She was lying on her bed fully clothed when I arrived.  I didn’t ask any questions.  I took off my boots, took a few pulls off the Wild Turkey by the bed and went to sleep.

The next morning I woke with her clinging to me like a barnacle.  She was squeezing me with her hand to arouse me.  I moved to get up and she began to plead with me – first verbally, then orally.  I relented.

We didn’t say a word as we laid on the damp, cold sheets.  She was facing the wall, with her back to me.

I was disgusted with myself.

She asked if I would come up next weekend – she wanted to make some kind of special plans.  I informed her that I had a female friend flying in from out of town, and that I wouldn’t be around.  I got up to shower and heard her sniffle.

She told me she didn’t want to see me anymore.

I didn’t talk to her at all that next week.  I picked Aimee up at the airport and promptly forgot about the last few months.  I was pampered and doted on for six days.  It was wonderful.  I felt like a weight had been lifted off my chest.

I dropped Aimee off and kissed her goodbye.  I hadn’t been out of her an hour when my phone rang.

“Where are you?”

Motherfucker.

I didn’t want to entertain her conversation, but she begged me to come see her.  I was almost to my exit when I imagined stuffing myself in her mouth, still warm with someone else.  I changed lanes and kept driving.

She opened a bottle of vodka when I got there and started drinking heavily.  After her pleading over the phone I had expected some modicum of kissing up.  Instead she shuffled around her apartment, brooding.

Her nose was tell-tale red.

She began to ask me questions about the week prior.  I refused to answer, reminding her that we were never really “together”.  I owed her nothing and I told her so.  The angrier she got, the calmer I felt.

Complete and instantaneous dissociation.

I realized my “revenge” plan was now irrelevant.  Smirking, I turned for the door.  She stood in front of me, screaming.  I told her, very casually, to get the fuck out of my way.  I moved to step around her and she shoved me.  My smile vanished.

“How can you say you don’t have any feelings for me?”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“How can you say you don’t love me!?“

“Because I don’t.”

“You FUCKER!”

It all happened in slow motion.  I saw the punch coming from a mile away.  She cocked her hand back behind her waist and swung for the fences.  She caught me right on the jaw.  My head snapped to one side and back.

I stood there wordless.  I was too surprised to be angry – too stunned to hit her back.

I moved to leave again and she threw herself in front of me.  She screamed at the top of her lungs that she would call the police and tell them that I hit her.  My surface tension broke.  I hurled my phone at an adjacent wall and called her a stupid fucking whore.

She collapsed on the ground in a heap, sobbing.

“You’ll fuck her again,” Willy Pete told me, one afternoon.

I never spoke to her again.

The Daily Inappropriation is dead.  Long live “The Fucking Inappropriation.”

Negotiations with the UAW have broken down.  That’s the Union of Alcoholic Writers; not to be confused with the United Auto Workers.

In our continued effort to grow the site we have decided to end the Daily.  Fear not, the Inappropriation lives on.  When forced to pick between quality and quantity, we decided that it was more important for the Inappropriation to be good than for it to be Daily.

This is for your own good.

As for daily content, there will be plenty.  Big and I are working to bring KGB on board as quickly as possible.  We want to increase both the volume and the variety of the site, and we’re drinking heavily working dilligently to do so.

Let me give you a run-down of what we’re working on:

1. Booze Reviews – This was an early idea that has had little attention recently.  I have but one liver, what’s left of it.  Since Big has become our resident beer snob, on account of his sensitive taste buds, that’ll be his turf.  I’ll stick to what I know – bourbon.  KGB will do what Russians do best – vodka.  As for Hack, he drinks motor oil and starter fluid, so . . .

2. Layout Updates – I’m trying to polish this turd, but I know fuck-all about coding.  Also, I’d rather buy a case of whiskey than pay someone to format our website.  So, unless someone wants to VOLUNTEER . . . you’ll just have to pay close attention as things start moving and changing colors.

Having some experience with that sort of thing (away from the web), I can tell you it’s not always unpleasant.

3. Movie Reviews, Lists of Things, and other stuff you should care about.  Since most people can’t make up their own damned minds, we’re just going to have to do it for them.  We leave it to you, the faithful, to spread the word.  Mostly because we drink too much to do it ourselves.

4. Public Appearances – It’s going to happen.  Keep your eyes peeled for Road Dates.

I want to thank everyone for the tremendous reader response.  We’re not making any room in the bunker or anything, but I promise I won’t fuck your sister.  Mostly.  In the mean time, send us pictures of tits.

Good night, and Get Fuck’d.

- Max

It didn’t even look like a bar from the outside.  A neon sign flickered in the window, but there was nothing over the door.  A few people stood outside smoking cigarettes.

We were on a poorly lit side-street in a bad neighborhood – the kind of place where drunks and prostitutes live in weekly rentals.

The bar was close quarters inside, full of hard drunks.  Punks.  Blue-collar labor.  Fist-fights waiting to happen.  One string of rope lights lit the whole place.  I could smell piss over the cigarette smoke.  My boots clung to the floor from spilled beer and old puke.

The bartender was a heavyset blonde.  She came down to us and pushed her big tits up on the bar.  She leaned forward, openly solicitous.

“What can I do for you guys?”

I ordered shots and beer.  She set three rocks glasses on the bar, pouring with a heavy hand.  I handed one to Hack, and picked up my own.  The bartender raised hers and toasted:

“To Honor . . .

“If you can’t come in her, come on her . . . “

She brought our beers.  I tried to hand her money but she shook her head.

-     –     -

My name is Max, and I’m looking for a good bad time.

Who is Fucking Inappropriate?

Who is Max?

While drunken driving is a pretty stupid thing in the first place, the level of douchebaggery to which you are complicit elevates astronomically when you fuck up someone else’s shit. Of course, if you get in the vehicle with a drunk driver and die as a result then you’re the asshole.

A British man, Imran Hussain, was recently sentanced after killing a father and son in a drunk-driving incident. This is not the news – the circumstances under which it happened put him in the running for Douchebag of the Year*. More after the jump.

(* Note: We might have to invent that award, just for this motherfucker. – Max)

Fulltext Courtesy of BBC News.

A drink-driver who killed a father and son in a motorway crash was performing a sex act on himself minutes before the collision, a court heard.

Imran Hussain was driving at speeds of up to 120mph minutes before he ploughed into the back of a Fiat Punto carrying the Proctor family, from Wakefield.

Gary Proctor, 47, and son James, 16, died in the smash on the M62 motorway near Rochdale, on 3 August.

Hussain, of Bradford, was jailed for eight years at Manchester Crown Court.

Death threat

The 32-year-old, of Como Avenue, pleaded guilty to two counts of causing death by dangerous driving and one count of driving with excess alcohol at a previous hearing.

The court heard that Hussain’s erect penis was exposed when motorists came to his aid after the crash.

Judge Andrew Blake told him: “At the least it must have been a symptom you were not giving your full attention to driving.”

He sentenced him to eight years for each of the two counts of causing death by dangerous driving, to be served concurrently.

Hussain, a car dealer and father-of-four, was also banned from driving for 15 years.

Prosecutor Andrew Nuttall said Hussain had rowed with his wife hours before the crash and left the family home on Como Avenue for a night out with friends in Leeds.

He later stopped at a service station in Leeds in the early hours, where he was described as “staggering and clearly drunk”.

When challenged about ripping open a bag of crisps, he told the cashier: “I’ll find out where you live and will kill you.”

Police examined his mobile phone and discovered that he had called directory inquiries to request the number of an escort agency about 30 minutes before the crash.

Mr Nuttall said he called the agency – which provides female escorts on an hourly basis – but it was closed.

He said: “His attempts to contact the agency and the finding of him with an erect penis out of his trousers indicates that he was sexually excited and clearly handling his penis whilst he was driving and at the time of the collision.”

Hussain’s erratic driving in his Audi Q7 was reported to police by three groups of concerned motorists minutes before the crash.

Mr Nuttall said that, moments before the collision, the vehicle was seen lane-hopping, before veering across the carriageway and into the back of the Proctors’ Fiat Punto.

Several motorists stopped to help, including Christian Downard and his two friends.

Mr Nuttall said the trio went to help Hussain and saw that his penis was out of his trousers. He tried to run away and hurled abuse.

The Proctors had been travelling to Manchester Airport to fly out to Florida for a family holiday.

Mr Proctor’s wife, Catherine, aged 44, survived the crash, but suffered serious rib and arm injuries.

‘Life shattered’

In a statement released by police, Mrs Proctor said no words could describe the devastation her family felt.

“No-one should ever go through the nightmare I have suffered over the last four months,” she said.

“My whole life has been shattered. My hopes and dreams for the future have been taken away from me and the rest of my family. We will never recover from this.”

Speaking after the hearing, Sgt Phil Robinson, of Greater Manchester Police, said: “This man has taken Catherine Proctor’s entire family away from her in one fell swoop.

“Not only had he got behind the wheel of his car when drunk, but he had driven so dangerously it is actually a wonder that he did not ruin anyone else’s life that day.”

Fulltext Courtesy of BBC News.

Now that we’ve covered The Social Drinker, from kick-off to catastrophic failure, let’s look at how a professional holds their mud. An important fact to keep in mind: just because a habitual drinker’s perceived level may be different, to themselves and to others, does not mean they’re good to drive. In fact, they’re probably twice as bad as you think.

Habitual drinking changes your body at a cellular level. Cell membranes toughen, and your body learns to use alcohol for food. The first few drinks make you crisp, but it is all downhill from there.

* Author’s Note: We enjoy The Drink, here at FI. However, we do so responsibly. We are professionals, do not attempt this at home. Furthermore, we know better than to drive home. A chimp being attacked by a swarm of bees has a better chance of driving home safely. We have cab companies on speed dial.

Blood Alcohol Concentration: (g/100 ml)

0.00 – 0.05 “Sober”

0.06 – 0.09 “Sober”

0.10 – 0.15 Loose

0.16 – 0.20 Buzzed

0.21 – 0.25 Drunk

0.26 – 0.30 Wasted

0.31 – 0.40 Blind Staggered

0.41 – 0.50 John Bonham

0.00 – 0.05 “Sober” You start the night off as usual, with a shot and a beer. After all, it is only Tuesday. Might as well pace yourself.

0.06 – 0.09 “Sober” The people around you are clearly having a good time, but you have not yet begun to defile yourself. You order another round, drink the shot and carry the beer over to the juke box. Time to enlighten this place, you think, as you play a crushing setlist of Tom Waits and Warren Zevon.

0.10 – 0.15 Loose You’re starting to feel good now. Everything that was pissing you off before (about everyone else in the bar) is starting to slide, because your music is finally playing. The large Irish Catholic guy down the way has drummed up conversation. He is obviously a bit the worse for wear, but you nod politely and he buys you a shot. Somehow you are his new best friend.

0.16 – 0.20 Buzzed You order a round of beers for you and your friend. Did you play this, he asks? He hasn’t hear this song in years! Slante! He wanders off to piss and you decide to play some darts. You have to pace yourself, after all. A test of your hand-eye co-ordination will reaffirm that you’re doing well. You feel in the zone.

0.21 – 0.25 Drunk That one didn’t even hit the dart board. Sonovabitch. You hold your empty bottle aloft, tipped toward the bartender, and she brings you another. Your new friend is back, and someone else wants to play you two in a game of darts. You flag the bartender down, hold two fingers an inch apart, then four fingers aloft. She reads your sign-language and sets up four shots of whiskey.

0.26 – 0.30 Wasted Jesus, that last one is getting on top of you. You order a pint glass of water, which you chug, followed by another beer. This one is on the house, but you tip anyway. You haven’t actually spoken to anyone in forty-five minutes, so technically you haven’t begun to slur yet. Your most recent piss was two straight minutes of fluid discharge. Bored, you spray some on the floor. It’s wet already, you might as well.

0.31 – 0.40 Blind Staggered Fuck, where’s my coat? I should go, you think to yourself. The big Irish guy had promised another shot, but he seems to have passed out at the bar. You hold one foot aloft and touch your nose, neither of which goes well. You are definitely fucked. The bar is now a blur, all voices underwater, and you make your way back to your stool. A cab is beeping outside. You don’t remember calling it, but you get in anyway.

0.41 – 0.50 John Bonham By some fucking miracle you arrived at home, having consumed twice the amount necessary to render someone of your bodyweight unconscious. Unfortunately, the magnificent tolerance that made this all possible also prevented you from vomiting sooner. You aspirate in your sleep.

This segment is being done in two parts. Alcohol affects everyone differently. However, The Social Drinker (read: Teetotaling Sissy) will feel and behave much differently than a seasoned drinker. Since things vary heavily depending on bodyweight (and not all large people can hold their liquor), we’ll leave the levels based on blood concentration rather than number of drinks. Let’s start where it starts:

Blood Alcohol Concentration: (g/100 ml)

0.00 – 0.05 “Sober”

0.06 – 0.09 Loose

0.10 – 0.15 Tipsy

0.16 – 0.20 Drunk

0.21 – 0.25 Hammered

0.26 – 0.30 Wasted

0.31 – 0.40 Straight Fucked

0.41 – 0.50 Tommy Brolin

0.00 – 0.05 “Sober” At this stage, most people will seem normal. Reaction time is cut by a factor of two, accompanied by mild euphoria.

0.06 – 0.09 Loose Now things start happening; at this level your judgment and coordination are affected (now by a factor of four). Inhibition begins to crumble. Beer muscles swell, stories are told, and that fish? It was huge. Everyone you’ve ever fucked moves up two points (on a base-10 system).

0.10 – 0.15 Tipsy Inhibition goes out the window. Simple tasks, like scribbling notes on a bar napkin, become more difficult. Reaction time disintegrates as your overall sense of time begins to fail, but things are going well! You’re calling everyone by the wrong name, but that won’t deter you in the least from trying to hook up with the twins in line for the bathroom. Much of this will be fuzzy in the morning, but you’ll fill in the details with crayon.

0.16 – 0.20 Drunk You’re friends will recognize this phase from across the bar when they see you ordering a round of shots. A second round is sure to follow. There is a near-miss with a fist-fight as you fumble for money and realize that you have none. Your “quick run” to the ATM will take half an hour, with a detour to the bathroom.

0.21 – 0.25 Hammered You should have called it quits an hour ago. Did you? No, you ordered six shots of 99 Bananas for you and your new closest friends. Where did they go, anyway? Fuck . . . you need to go to the ATM again. Whatever. Someone hands you a shot and you drink it, everyone is cheering about something.

0.26 – 0.30 Wasted You’ve just thrown up. On yourself. You try to clean it up, so you can go back into the bar. Huh? The bouncer isn’t having it, and he doesn’t care that your friends are in there. No, you can’t go in that door either. Get off the sidewalk. You try to call them, but only after drunk-dialing half a dozen people for booty calls or phone sex . . . or a friendly voice. Thanks, Mom. Love you too.

0.31 – 0.40 Straight Fucked Your friends have been looking for you for an hour. They drag you out of the alleyway, where you’ve been sleeping, and carry you to the car. You get to ride in the trunk, since you’ve pissed yourself. You’re too wasted to notice the difference. This stage is sometimes referred to as “acute intoxication”, or intoxication of “clinical significance”, and unless your friends get you to the hospital you’re pretty much fucked.

0.41 – 0.50 Tommy Brolin Dude, Tommy’s not breathing. His lips are blue. Help me get him out of the trunk. It wasn’t my idea to leave him in there overnight . . . No, this isn’t funny, fuckhead . . .

Next up: Blood Alcohol and the Seasoned Drinker —