Monday Hangover

I hate to admit there isn’t much of a hangover to report this Monday. Not that we didn’t consume massive amounts of alcohol this weekend (I mean it was the weekend) but usually one of our drunk asses does something so ridiculous and/or stupid to shame ourselves that we legitimately expect to be horse-laughed and ridiculed until someone does something else to take the spotlight off our follies. Ridicule builds character.

I’ve decided to alter this tame weekend of semi-decent behavior by falsifying some facts in the spirit of entertaining you, drunken reader. The fun will be deciphering which events actually happened vs. those that did not. “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story” someone once said…

So Friday I decided I would only work a half day and told my boss in no uncertain terms that I was tired of his shit and that I may be back on Monday. I said goodbye to all the saps left toiling at their desks by carpet bombing my way out the door. I started drinking immediately at 12:01 p.m. as I walked from my downtown office to my apartment near Strawberry Plains Pike. It was hot that day and I must have drank damn near the entire 12-pack of Hamm’s before I made it home.

After a relaxing massage and nap I am revived and ready to go! I don my 70’s era silk threads and make my way back to Knoxville where I have plans to meet up with Lord von Lord and Scarlett O’Harlot for happy hour drinks. (You will be introduced to this lush soon enough) Naturally I make a couple of stops along the way to parch my thirst and discover a favorite domestic beer just added that day to the beer taps at Manhattan’s:

Coors Original “The Banquet Beer”.

Hell. Yes. I have a few and continue on to the Urban Bar where I’m meeting those two drunks. It has been a while since I’ve seen the old girl and she appears a bit different than I remember as she arrived on her skateboard:

After assuring the server that none of us are police cadets conducting a sting operation we have some cocktails and draft beers. I then report back to the captain that they have let their guard down and to send in the “backup” cadets after we leave. Not every bar fills up completely at 5:00 p.m. for happy hour like it should, and this place was not even close, as we were the only customers. They could have used a few Greyhound transients to liven up the place, but I’ll quit my bitching – not everyone enjoys the company of smelly, money-grubbing strangers as much as I do. Nevertheless we finish our drinks and LVL pays the tab for once. (See, you add a fine lady to the group and all of a sudden that sumbitch becomes Donald “Don Juan” Trump)

We meet up with King Randall the Insufferable and his queen and continue drinking. Talk about someone who looks the other way when the check comes, KRTI is the only person I know to be confused with a transient while sipping PBR tallboys at Marie’s Olde Towne Tavern. We move along to yet another bar; this time I order a fine 12 year old scotch (single malt of course) with 2 cubes of ice. I ease into the drink and slip away to my happy place while waiting for my taxi to arrive.

Saturday was spent on the lake as it should be in 90 degree weather. The following things were consumed first: lunch, Goody’s powders, large bottles of water, Gatorade. Then on to the drinking: lake beer and Blanton’s bourbon. In between there were many insults, floating, bullshit, piracy, lies, accusations, boasting, stories of those who puked all last week on the boat, stories of girls’ ta-tas from last week, smoke breaks, responsible boating, ridicule of malt beverages on the lake, grilled Hebrew National hot dogs, burgers and chicken, mashed potatoes, underage girls flashing their goods, Ful-manure griping, discussing the ladies French Open champion

gun play, Tool, the heat, relief that hockey season was over, and not one single frozen boat drink.
After safely returning home via private limo I somehow managed to make my way downtown and met King Randall for a few more beers. This was the mistake. Not that anything happened, aside from quiet, polite conversation with “The Human Buzz Saw” while listening to the poetic styling of Sarah McLaughlin

but rather the lengthy 14 hour day of alcohol consumption that put me on the couch the better part of Sunday.

After finally recovering enough to make it to the weekly cookout at Tag’s we arrive and do little more than drink oh, 10 - 20 pitchers of beer, have dinner, relax, lose the dog, plot vengeance against those who plot against us, discuss the Commodores, and finally make our way back home in time to get some rest before the work week. And yes, I begrudgingly came to work today as I threatened not to do, but only so I could dispense the horrible surplus of “carpet bombs” I amassed over the weekend. I think I may take the day off Tuesday instead.