RazzyBlog: Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this

Monday, July 28, 2008

Daily Douchebag: bar tabs like this

Name: my table's bill Friday night

DOB: July 25, 2008

Occupation: making everybody who had a piece of this seriously consider the extent of their alcoholism

Hometown: our dirty hot waiter's apron at El Rey del Sol

Current residence: the financial ledgers at El Rey del Sol

Douchebaggery: I'm generally a pretty thirsty bar patron, but every once in a while I drink so much alcohol that I even surprise myself. Last Friday night was one of those occasions. My friend JerseyGirl throws these happy hours, primarily because she likes any excuse to make an Evite about getting shitfaced. At almost all of these events, I get wasted and very frequently laid with one of the horny gentlemen working with JerseyGirl in the trenches of cable news production. However, at this most recent occasion, JerseyGirl recently broke up with her boyfriend, I've been stressed to the point of almost getting my old poetry notebook out and scrawling out some appalling verse, Rack's boyfriend TheOldGuy's mom just passed away, and Twathopper's been lamenting her usual incompetence at lesbianism, so this happy hour could be a "quiet night out" with closer friends. There weren't as many random cubicle neighbors Evited as usual.

In hindsight, it was probably a mistake not to throw the usual bar-banger, because instead of leaving early to pork some hot swarthy employee of MSNBC or FOX News, I stayed until the finale when the bill arrived, and I was HAMMERED. I was so drunk that on the way home, I almost fell asleep in the cab, something I've sworn never to do ever since my first year in New York I wound up with a cabdriver who started jerking off on the Henry Hudson where there was no escape for me. With those kind of guys taking drunk bitches home, there's no way I'm going to get unconscious and trust the driver will wake me at my humble tenement rather than in some abandoned alley in the Bronx where he'll rape me and dump my lifeless body for the Special Victims Unit to find. I was so drunk that the simple task of staying semi-conscious was a Herculean feat on the way home. I was really, really drunk.

That's why I was not surprised to recall later that we drank over NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS WORTH OF MARGARITA PITCHERS. I remember being surprised at the time, and raving about "there is NO WAY we drank that much! I'm practically sober!" like the truly delusional drunk-ass bitch I was by the time the waiter closed us out. "NINE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS?!? Wait, we didn't REALLY drink that much...did we?" Okay, well some of that was the tip and tax, and in fairness we ate a paltry $31 worth of nachos, but otherwise we drank probably literally twenty five extraordinarily stiff pitchers of tequila-based cocktails...among a maximum of twenty people, some of whom didn't drink much. As I estimate that around 15 of us drank margaritas, that means we each had 1.67 pitchers each over the course of around four hours. Even for boozehounds like us, that is a shitload of well tequila to consume.

It's not surprising that the next day, many of the attendees reported incapacitating hangovers. I myself was miraculously not clutching the toilet bowl for the next twelve hours (a hangover that in my case seems to be reserved almost exclusively for mixing liquor nights, like when I switch back and forth between scotch, G&Ts, and vodka-Red Bulls). I was, however, very glad when my afternoon drinking plans were canceled so that I could convalesce and make amends to my own liver, because I still felt like shit. I need to remember this the next time we hit up a margarita happy hour, or I'm going to be calling Schick Shadel sooner than later.

Labels: alcoholism, Daily Douchebag, FalloniusMonk, HillsYes, JerseyGirl, Rack, Twathopper