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the Modern dayPa Registered: 04/01/02 Posts: 1,687 Last seen: 9 years, 2 months |
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You can judge what time it is by looking at the shelf you’re buying drinks from.
The bars send out a search party when you don’t show up at opening time. You use your cuff links as curb feelers. You’ve stepped on your own fingers. Everyone thinks you’re bilingual. You’ve told a priest, “Make it a triple this time, and hold the wafer.” You walk into a new bar and ask to see the finance manager. You have a reserved parking space in front of two different liquor stores. Your birthday is a holiday in Scotland. You favorite brand of vino comes with the disclaimer, “No grapes were harmed in the making of this wine.” The fire marshal fines you every time you yawn near an open flame. You get so loaded it takes two trips to get it all home. You walk into a new bar and they already know what you drink. You invented a drinking game for A.A. meetings. You match your outfit to the liquor you plan on drinking. You buy a lamp because you need a hat. FEMA declared you a national disaster. You’re not sure when Mary Ann snuck out your apartment last night, but you figure it was about the same time Mrs. Howell snuck in. You resolve to call your local councilman and complain about the city’s ill-advised policy of putting lampposts in the middle of the road. Uncontrollable vomiting, falling out of a tree and a heavily overdrawn bank account may very well be elements of “the most awesome weekend.” You call an ex-friend at 3am to ask what he meant by that remark last July. You receive divorce papers from your liver and it wants full custody of the kidneys. You were genuinely excited about Cingular’s “More bars in more places” promise until you found out they were talking about cell phones. You don’t have to imagine what a spilled gin and tonic sucked from a shag rug tastes like. You stub out your glass in the ashtray and ask the bartender to fill up your cigarette. You drank so much beer last night you single-handedly wore out a fresh urinal cake. All your character witnesses are in the drunk tank. You have attempted to wring out a rum cake. The cops set up a DUI checkpoint in your driveway. The rattlesnake that bit you yelped. You once woke up with a new job. Your menage a trois fantasies include a bartender. Your DNA is shaped like a corkscrew. Your streetside recycling company has to bring an extra truck. The ATF has a You division. You catch yourself rambling on about Thunderbird’s “delicate, yet audacious bouquet.” You swallow your mouthwash because it reminds you of spearmint schnapps. You drink tequila to get the taste of rum out of your mouth. And visa versa. For hours at a time. You’d never steal a fellow drunk’s drink, but you do occasionally “adopt orphans.” Your local liquor store let’s you put bottles on layaway. You’ve attempted seppuku with a cocktail sword. You have to go to court to find out what happened. You’ve talked the monkey on your back into chipping in on bar tabs. You’ve been 86’d from detox. The only time Shane MacGowan looks sober is when he’s standing next to you. You see nothing ironic in chasing your daily vitamins with a water glass full of whiskey. Your office chair is a barstool. You own three beer bong patents. You only drink socially, except when you’re alone. You can’t stand tomato juice but love those Bloody Marys. You don’t need to hire a personal trainer to encourage you to start running because cops do it for free. Your PhD. thesis in political science was titled, “I Could So Outdrink Ted Kennedy.” You get indignant if a wedding reception has a cash bar. Especially if the reception was hard to sneak into. The simple act of returning an empty keg can spiral into an big emotional scene. You started taking scuba lessons when you learned that the Titanic went down with 500 cases of Bass Ale. If a party runs out of booze, you sock the host and drink his nosebleed. Your wife asks you to pick up a canned ham, and you show up with a case of Hamm’s in cans. Interventions have become so frequent that you just leave the folding chairs set up in your living room. The arresting officer tells you that you have the right to remain silent and you waive that right so you can finish singing Enter Sandman. You know how to say “Where are my pants?” in seven languages. You have a lot of respect for that 80-year-old guy at the end of the bar, but you know from experience that he’s a dirty fighter. You go on week-long benders just so you’ll have a cool story to tell at your AA meetings. You got in a fist fight with a wino over how long a bottle of Thunderbird should be allowed to “breathe”. You’re willing to go on the wagon, so long as it’s heading for a bar. You got pissed off when you forgot whatever you were drinking to forget. You have so much alcohol in your system that your cabbie has to be HazMat certified. If a wino jumped off a building, you’d bravely leap forward to break the fall of his bottle. You install shag carpet because it’s easier to hang on to. Embalming fluid would be an improvement. Your last Breathalyzer reading was “No Fucking Way.” Distilleries fight over the billboard nearest to your place of residence. The state has installed a Breathalyzer interlock device on your shoes. You drew up a living will that states very clearly that you do not want the booze tube removed under any circumstances. Your friends often substitute “Good night” with “Hey, you can’t sleep here.” When you donate blood they store it in oak barrels. You openly commit crimes just to learn new pruno recipes. Your name is police code for Public Intoxication. You’re fairly sure a letter to Dear Abby signed “Want To Leave the Bum, But Can’t” was written by your liver. Your favorite drinking game is Do A Shot Every Time You Do A Shot. Your idea of a seven-course meal is a six-pack and a pizza. TV beer ads have started addressing you by name. Someone offers you palm wine and you think they’re out of glassware. You brush your teeth with bourbon. It hasn’t helped cut down on cavities, but who cares? When a panhandler asks, “Can you give me a quarter for some beer?” you reply, “Okay, but I want to taste it first.” You know heavy drinking makes you smarter because you can never remember doing anything stupid while blacked out. You have a split personality—every time you meet someone with booze you want to split it with them. You were so drunk at the office Xmas party that you kissed your own wife. You’ve never been to Afghanistan or Pakistan, but you’re a frequent visitor to Imtoodrunktostan. You become sexually aroused by the tapping of a keg. You know you can use Jagermeister as cough syrup. And visa versa. Your 86s are passed down to your grandchildren. You have a sweet tooth for alcohol—in fact, your whole mouth likes it. You spill so much booze at home your dog slurs his barks. Your credit history is composed entirely of bar tabs. When you get a cold you get a bottle of whiskey, do shots, and it’s gone — not the cold, the whiskey. You’re always shaking hands, even when there’s no one else around. Whenever you bend your elbow your mouth snaps open. When your boss asks you to work overtime you demand time and a fifth. You get held up almost every time you go home — in fact it’s the only way you can get home. You’d be happy to go on the wagon if you could find one with a bar. Your favorite bar is four blocks away — six blocks coming back. When you order a hound for the rouse. The Red Cross uses your blood to sterilize their instruments. You’re half scotch, and your ancestors aren’t from Scotland. You know how to handle your liquor — with both hands. You hate the very sight of liquor, which is why you hide it in your stomach. You can tell what bar you’re in by the bottoms of their tables. A liter of scotch isn't enough to invite a friend over for a drink. Your first science fair project was a still. You know most the of people in a bar and can’t remember one of their names. Anyone who kisses you must legally wait half an hour to drive. They have to mix your blood with tonic water before giving it to anyone. You’ve filed assault charges against a coffee table. When you’re out in the street, you are literally “out” in the street. You think of drinking beer as “sobering up,” You can say “Whiskey, please” in 34 languages, but can’t understand “Last call” in English. Your liver takes sides against you during an intervention. You know better than going near an open flame while you’re bleeding. Your bed looks a helluva lot like a park bench, and your bedroom looks a helluva lot like a park. You need a blood transfusion to legally enter a dry county. Your flask is spring-loaded. You judge cologne by its bouquet and finish. Your liver is in the Federal Witness Protection Program. You enjoy cooking with wine, and sometimes you even put it in the food. You’ve only been drunk once in your life, and so far it’s lasted twenty-three years. You liver has a restraining order on you. You can tell the difference between a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Jim by the sound they make hitting the back of your head. Alcoholism doesn’t run in your family—it takes its own sweet time. You’ve been cut off during communion. You wonder why they call it Southern Comfort when they know damn well there is nothing comfortable about being handcuffed in the back of a squad car. Growing-up means buying better booze, getting older means getting used to the cheap stuff again. You miss the old days when you were younger than the cop that finds you sleeping in a dumpster. You were excited about the Olsen twins turning “legal” until you realized they still aren’t old enough to buy you a drink. You resent it when people call you a raving alcoholic, because you’ve never been to a rave in your life. You keep a bottle of liquor next to your bed so you can have breakfast in bed when you wake up. You consider anything less than 80 proof a chaser. You’ve eaten 87 packets of honey mustard because on the label it lists “white wine” as an ingredient. You have convinced yourself that you’re not drinking alone so long as your friends Jack, Jim and Johnnie are over. Your wardrobe is divided into Summer, Winter and Things You Woke Up Wearing. The third category includes a number of thongs. Your BAC is measured in proof. You measure time by drinks, as in: "Hold on a shot, the movie doesn't start for another four bourbons." To you "Last call!" sounds just like "Please don’t leave! We love you and you're charming wit!" You don’t use cologne or aftershave because you have a moral objection to alcohol going anywhere but down your throat. You’d exercise more but when you sweat it smells like booze and that makes you thirsty. You always finish your drinks because there are sober people in China. When you come home to find your house burglarized the first thing you check is your liquor cabinet. You'll join A.A. when they start serving cocktails at the meetings. Your ATM is a Dumpster full of recyclable cans. You'll sleep through a train wreck, yet spring awake to the sound of a bottle top turning. You can order a beer in 17 different languages but don’t know how to pronounce “Perrier.” When a cop asks, “Have we been drinking?” you reply, “Do you really think I’d drink with the likes of you?” You freak out when you wake up in your own bed. You’d have passed the sobriety test if you hadn’t mistaken the Breathalyzer for a bugle. Your waking thought is, “Wow, look at all the gum stuck to the bottom of the table.” You got in trouble at work because your standard greeting is, “Hey, let’s do a shot!” You cursed the St. Bernard who rescued you because he had the nerve to bring only one lousy liter of brandy. You can hear someone whisper “free beer” from three blocks away. You consider a bottle of cheap whiskey and two shot glasses a very romantic gift. You hate it when men give you flowers because, hey—you can’t drink flowers. You dream of the beautiful day when all races, religions, creeds and colors finally get it together and pitch in to buy you a case of decent scotch. You show up to brewery tours wearing fins and a snorkel. You tell your friends your dog’s name is “Time For A Beer Run” but you call him “Hurry Up.” The tooth fairy left you shots of Rumpleminze. You’ve convinced yourself your liver isn’t distended—it’s pregnant. With a new liver. You play the same song 20 times in a row at top volume at three in the morning and are certain the neighbors don’t mind because, you know, it’s such a kick-ass song. You think the porcelain hat looks good on you. Your idea of karaoke is falling off the stage while yelling “Rock and roll!” into the microphone. Your house is four times farther from the bar on the way back. Your alarm clock is synchronized with the nearest liquor store’s opening time. You have threatened to murder and marry the same person in the span of a single happy hour. You are the answer to the question, “What kind of idiot pukes in a bidet?” While in the drunk tank your friends tried to sneak you a fifth of Beam in a cake. You’re personal trainer is a bartender. You’ve known Jack Daniels so long you refer to him as John. You watch Behind the Music and think “That’s really not that much alcohol.” The bartender is in the weeds and you’re the only person in the bar. You refuse to play Golden Tee because there is no beer cart girl. Think box wine is great; eagerly awaiting box whiskey. You get cut off in absentia. You won’t rent an apartment that doesn’t have a bar and liquor store within two blocks. You’re favorite cocktail is one quarter vodka, one quarter vodka, one half vodka and topped up with vodka. You get angry when guys who can’t hold their liquor keep stepping on your fingers. You get nervous when there are only three bottles of liquor left in your house. You forget how pants work. You’re not angry about the fly in your drink, you’re angry he didn’t chip in on the tab. You’ve never taken a lesson, but after eight drinks you’re pretty damn sure you can play the piano. And break dance. At the same time. You hate it when your lightweight drinking buddies get so drunk you can barely see them. You’ve put a dozen vampires into A.A. You shake the same person’s hand five times between last call and getting booted out. You’re entire life’s savings equals a case a cheap beer and bottle of rotgut bourbon. And you’re very excited by the fact. You think Jim Beam is a utility company because it keeps shutting off your lights. You never blackout. You just take a lot of “loud vertical naps.” You have never taken a drink of a non-alcoholic beverage without thinking, “Man, a splash of booze would fix this right up.” You’ve apologized to people you don’t remember meeting for things you don’t remember doing in places you don’t remember going. You think of plate glass windows as more suggestions than guidelines. You can’t walk a straight line unless the floor is moving. You dressed as a wino for halloween and no one noticed. Half the bartenders in town know exactly which porch to leave you on. Your tapeworm joined a 12 Step program. You attempted to have a keg delivered to your cell in the drunk tank. Your paychecks are deposited directly into a bar’s bank account. Instead of “Good morning,” the first words out of your mouth are “Have you seen my trousers?” You were looking forward to your court-mandated alcohol classes until you found out there wasn’t any actual alcohol involved. You hang an open umbrella from your drinking hand to catch the spillage. Long Islands are your cup of tea. The words “Last Call” physically hurt you. Detox leaves a mint under your pillow. You fall down a well and send Lassie to the liquor store. Bartenders call you when you’ve been absent for more than two days. Lawn sprinklers are sometimes your alarm clock. You wake up in a strange city not knowing how you got there, and the three other guys don’t know either. You need help getting the breathalyzer in the right hole. You lost a fistfight with yourself. It takes two shots of schnapps to wash the taste of Breathalyzer out of your mouth. You like to stop for a drink on the way to the fridge to get a beer. You went on vacation for two weeks and the owner of your regular bar had his boat repossessed. You’ve asked a bartender to “freshen up” your shot glass. Bars call in their off-duty bartenders when you walk in the door. You’ve asked a waiter: “What sort of wine goes with vodka?” When buying floor tile, you press your face against it to see how comfortable it would be to sleep on. You get into a loud, enraged argument, then realize you’re alone. ive supprisingly been in more than 50 of those situations :/ -------------------- BoUnCy BaLL IS All SoUrCe OF LIGhT AnD HaPPiNeSS!!~! *bEEP* *beEP*
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