"Alcohol can be difficult to avoid for UW students on campus, especially for those with drinking problems."
Hmm. You think? Personally, I would have added, "and super-duper especially for those with drinking problems who are in bars with hot, big-breasted sluts offering to take their tops off for anyone willing to suck some sticky sweet yumyum alcoholic shots off the hot, big-breasted sluts' cleavage."
Now that's hard to avoid. Trust me.
Now if you'll excuse me...
It's time to watch some channel 27 news at ten!!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Drinking Problem.
So it's been a month. Don't call it a comeback, I've been here the whole time.
In that month, I've had a lot of time to reflect, a lot of time dream, and a lot of time to drink. I find those three are mutually exclusive. Reflection leads to dreams of a better future; dreaming of that better future leads to further reflection on my pitiful life; this reflection leads to hard liquor. Drinking of course leads to sleep, during which I typically dream. The subsequent hangover causes reflection and dreams to never drink again. But what sort of life would that be?
And so the cycle renews itself. It's a vicious one, that.
I'm basically like Mother Gaia: a self-cleaning mechanism.
Anyway, on to my real drinking problem. I'm not afraid to admit it, either. I have a drinking problem. There. I said it. OK? You happy?
Nosy fucks.
I was up in Minneapolis for my brother Bart's thirtieth birthday the other weekend. Twenty beers, a few arm wrestling matches, a piggyback ride, one winning round and several losing rounds of dice later, I decided to take on my buddy, Glen Livet. Me, Bart, and a few of his buddies were downstairs in the basement, chatting the good chat -- which when you've collectively consumed an entire keg basically boils down to dancing to the footloose theme song (Dirk, I'm looking your way) -- when I sat down, back resting against the front base of the couch. I made some sarcastic remark about how well I could hold my liquor.
Then I threw the contents of the glass in my face.
Not only a smidge of liquid, either.
Drowning in a flash flood of scotch, rolling around the floor like a trained pig*, trying to hold off the uncontrollable spate of laughter causing an inverse avalanche of suds and saliva to rise from the depths within, recognizing the absurdity of what had happened, I realized that, in point of fact, I, my friends, have a drinking problem.
It turns out I can't hold my liquor. Not with my hands, at least.
This has caused me to reflect upon my problem and dream up a solution: the sippy cup. The next time I find myself saturated of sweet inebriation-- can anyone say, Ass Clown EOY Party?-- I'm going to my plan b. And I hope those around me will offer their encouragement. For though spilling profusely on one's self is comedy gold, after the third or fourth time the well runs dry.
That is all.
*Bill Parcells was giving an interview after a preseason practice the other week. After the tenth straight question about Terrell Owens' injury, he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "I'm not gonna stand up here like a trained pig and talk about the same thing over and over again." That, my gentle snowflakes, is officially the worst. simile. ever. And I have had some pretty good doozies in my day.
In that month, I've had a lot of time to reflect, a lot of time dream, and a lot of time to drink. I find those three are mutually exclusive. Reflection leads to dreams of a better future; dreaming of that better future leads to further reflection on my pitiful life; this reflection leads to hard liquor. Drinking of course leads to sleep, during which I typically dream. The subsequent hangover causes reflection and dreams to never drink again. But what sort of life would that be?
And so the cycle renews itself. It's a vicious one, that.
I'm basically like Mother Gaia: a self-cleaning mechanism.
Anyway, on to my real drinking problem. I'm not afraid to admit it, either. I have a drinking problem. There. I said it. OK? You happy?
Nosy fucks.
I was up in Minneapolis for my brother Bart's thirtieth birthday the other weekend. Twenty beers, a few arm wrestling matches, a piggyback ride, one winning round and several losing rounds of dice later, I decided to take on my buddy, Glen Livet. Me, Bart, and a few of his buddies were downstairs in the basement, chatting the good chat -- which when you've collectively consumed an entire keg basically boils down to dancing to the footloose theme song (Dirk, I'm looking your way) -- when I sat down, back resting against the front base of the couch. I made some sarcastic remark about how well I could hold my liquor.
Then I threw the contents of the glass in my face.
Not only a smidge of liquid, either.
Drowning in a flash flood of scotch, rolling around the floor like a trained pig*, trying to hold off the uncontrollable spate of laughter causing an inverse avalanche of suds and saliva to rise from the depths within, recognizing the absurdity of what had happened, I realized that, in point of fact, I, my friends, have a drinking problem.
It turns out I can't hold my liquor. Not with my hands, at least.This has caused me to reflect upon my problem and dream up a solution: the sippy cup. The next time I find myself saturated of sweet inebriation-- can anyone say, Ass Clown EOY Party?-- I'm going to my plan b. And I hope those around me will offer their encouragement. For though spilling profusely on one's self is comedy gold, after the third or fourth time the well runs dry.
That is all.
*Bill Parcells was giving an interview after a preseason practice the other week. After the tenth straight question about Terrell Owens' injury, he said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "I'm not gonna stand up here like a trained pig and talk about the same thing over and over again." That, my gentle snowflakes, is officially the worst. simile. ever. And I have had some pretty good doozies in my day.
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