Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw Yourself?

One of the benefits of being a Dusty Old Crusty (D.O.C. y’aaaaaall!), is finally being able to hold my liquor.  As a matter of fact, learning how to drink without humiliating myself is probably the biggest accomplishment I have to-date.  Granted, you can still always count on me to challenge people to a push-up contest after three cocktails, but the up-side of that is a stronger upper body, and who doesn’t want that?  It’s about fitness.

Now, if you know me, you have no doubt heard the upcoming anecdote several times, so you’ll have to humor me for the next paragraph, but I’ll at least give you the shortish version.

When I was 15, I had the moony-eyed, pathetic crush of all crushes.  My own personal Jordan Catalano.  One night when we were hanging out at a house party, I drank somewhere in the area of 3-4 beers.  When I felt that hurling was imminent, I got up from the couch and walked towards the bathroom, only to find a line of people waiting to get in.  I stood in the hallway, drunk and swaying, and totally threw up.  Except that right when this started to happen, my crush just so happened to walk up and start talking to me, so instead of throwing up, I threw…in?  I stood there and held the puke inside my mouth so that he wouldn’t know that I was throwing up inside my own mouth.  He kept talking, I kept nodding and smiling, holding a mouth full of vomit.  He eventually made me laugh, the hurl came streaming out of my nose like a dual-sided volcano, he yelled “Gross!!!” and ran away from me.

To summarize, Jordan Catalano yelled “Gross!!!” at me.  And then ran away.  Like any vomiting out of your nose story, it’s a pretty good one.  /smug

You can repeat this story, changing a few of the details, and this would describe my first 10 years of drinking.  Making out with a Dockers-wearing P.E. coach with a Caesar haircut I had just met at a wedding before excusing myself to throw up for the next 8 hours in a crushed velvet babydoll dress was probably the low point (hello 1995!).  On a related note, it is nearly impossible to get vomit out of crushed velvet.  The only thing that’s worse is trying to get vomit out of faux fur, but thankfully the faux fur trend didn’t come along for a few more years, so I had time to plan ahead.  If you vomit on something with sequins, just throw it out.

I just could never figure out my limit, and then even if I did, I had to figure it out again depending on how empty my stomach was and what kind of alcoholic beverage was being served.  Beer 3, wine 2, mixed drink 2, Zima 3 and subtract one from each if it’s on an empty stomach.  This is also why I hardly ever do shots, because it throws off all of my pre-established metrics.

So!  Young lushes!  Here’s what you need to do:

Eat.  Something.  I don’t just mean eat a granola bar and then head out to an all-night bachelorette party.  If I know I’m going to be engaging in a high-level drinking event, I eat like a goddamned machine before I go.  Pack it in like a lumberjack hamster.  A pudding cup is not going to cut it.  Think eggs, hashbrowns, sausage, biscuits and gravy.  Soooo much gravy.  Then eat mini-muffins on the entire drive there.  Bacon double cheeseburger.  Do it up.

Second, resist the urge to “pre-game” at somebody’s house.  If you’re picking up your friend on the way out for the night, and she says, “Let’s do a couple shots before we go!”, just say no.  If she persists, tell her she reminds you of an 2004-era Lindsay Lohan “in a bad way” and that should nip it in the bud.

If the effects of alcohol tend to sneak up on you like they do on me, alternate alcoholic drinks with a glass of club soda.  Most bars won’t even charge you for it, it has zero calories, and this method has saved my ass on numerous occasions.  It will also help to keep you from feeling like you got stomped on by a donkey the next day.  Hydration, people!  It’s a cure-all.  You will never wake up the day after you drank 3 gin and tonics and 3 club sodas and wish you had just had 6 gin and tonics instead.  Trust me.

Lastly, there’s the ol’ Coyote Ugly trick, where if someone surprises you by buying you a shot, you pretend to do it, and then clandestinely spit it out into an empty beer bottle.  This is what I have done with literally every shot of Jagermeister anyone has ever bought me, not because I was afraid of getting too drunk, but because Jagermeister is fucking gross.

Related – I imagine that when Bridget Moynihan was in that Coyote Ugly movie she thought it was a pretty low point in her life, but then years later she married Tom Brady, got impregnated by Tom Brady, and then dumped by Tom Brady for Gisele Bundchen – while still pregnant – yet still has to raise his icky vanilla-demon spawn.

Related – Tom Brady is the literal worst.  The WORST. He is the Tom Paris of football.

And come to think of it, when Bridget Moynihan was in Sex and The City, she married Mr. Big (who insisted she walk down the aisle to a saxophone solo of “When a Man Loves a Woman”), and then got dumped by Mr. Big for Carrie Bradshaw, who was like 10 years older than her and dressed like a literal clown, who also incidentally never had to walk down a wedding aisle to a goddamned saxophone solo.  What does the world have against Bridget Moynihan???

I wonder if that’s the way you test someone’s personal limits and whether you’ll be able to use them as a doormat?  You just say to your soon-to-be bride, “I think you should walk down the aisle to a non-ironic saxophone solo of “When a Man Loves a Woman”.  If she says, “Uhh, okay?” then BINGO.  This woman will let you steamroll her for the rest of your life, because if she says yes to that shit on her wedding day?  Oh man, she will say yes to anything.

Go ahead and move your teenage mistress into the house, she won’t care.  Tell her she could stand to switch to salads for a while.  Tell her to go out and get a second job so she can pay for liposuction on her saddlebags.  Suggest to her that she buy her pants at Lane Bryant and her bras at the “Limited Too” kids clothing store which by the way some assbag actually suggested to me one time.  If at any time she offers resistance to your whims, just start playing “When a Man Loves a Woman” on the saxophone and she will become all Pavlovian-catatonic with PTSD, remember where she stands in the hierarchy of your relationship, and start folding your laundry the right way for a change.  Chicks!

I need a drink.  Happy Friday!

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