Drunk(s) of the Day: When dru’zombies attack


Today, we present two snapshots of the comically wasted.

1. You know how in zombie movies, when the non-zombie protagonists are escaping to safety in an enclosed vehicle, and zombies surround the vehicle and are heavily thumping their rotting appendages against the doors? And pressing their moaning, sallow and hollow-eyed faces against the windows? We had accomplished what can be an impossible task during the post-last call hours in the City by the Bay—we hailed a cab. No sooner had we hoisted our booze-weakened bodies into the backseat, than she with the empty gaze, teetering in strappy, pencil-heeled sandal, pressed palm against glass to steady herself and grabbed at the door handle. Our cab driver immediately locked us in, giggling at what was probably the 8 billionth wasted dame to attempt to commandeer his occupied back seat. Quivering, we heard her palm smack the window and fingers ineffectively yank at the handle.  Seconds dragged on as she futilely struggled. Finally, the light changed and we left Ms. Zombie Apocalypse behind.

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Drunk of the Day

Let’s travel back a couple years, and to a place its locals occasionally refer to as “San Diego.”

It was somebody who may or may not also write for this blog’s birthday, and he may or may not have been turning a year that was one shy of a quarter century. What better way to celebrate, he might have mulled, than crashing for a weekend at a friend’s home in California’s most stereotypically sun-filled of cities? A perfect venue for copious daytime-beach into nighttime-bar-hop booze binging.

The birthday eve began as many had before, with a promise among several present to ingest a certain number of drinks that equaled the years that this possible-future blogger was aging towards. Sharpies were located and stuffed in jean pockets, for keeping semi-permanent tally.

Twenty-four increasingly wavy, lengthy, and/or jagged lines snaked around the forearms of the participants’ arms before the clock ticked past three hours prior to West Coast last call. And the night, she was young yet.
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Drunk of the Day: “Where you there when I was asleep?”


We are looking to move into a better apartment and thus, spent a recent Saturday afternoon scoping out potential future abodes. Little did we know that while touring one (pretty damn nice, but way isolated) building, we’d meet the Drunk of the Day.

Drunk of the Day wandered out of his door and into the hallway just as our group was exiting one available place and moving on to see another. Sugar free Red Bull in hand, he asked us if we would like to see what a furnished loft looked like. We all agreed and followed him inside his place. He explained his various hip and artsy furnishings and accessories in great detail (these are the many mirrors we look at ourselves in while getting ready to go out, this is my display of Mary artifacts—although I’m not religious, this is a prop door) and came across as incredibly friendly and generous, albeit eccentric, and maybe nursing an enthusiasm-over.

Once we left his loft and Drunk of the Day proclaimed he would like to join us on the tour, things took a turn. In the elevator D.o.t.D. turned again to the group and asked if we would like to see what his loft looked like. Silence ensued as the tour guide muttered awkwardly that we’d already seen it. “Were you there when I was asleep?” he asked, looking bewilderedly around the crowded car. Nervous laughter, darting eyes. “So. . . what have you been up to? Not sleeping much?” Our tour guide inquired. “Actually, I’ve been on a 30-day drinking binge,” D.o.t.D. announced in a strangely clear and unwavering voice. “I’m living off of these.” He held up his can of sugar free Red Bull.

The moral of this story is that just because someone isn’t slurring their speech, falling over and/or hitting their head on shit, lighting their smoke on the filter end, or buying the whole bar a round of red headed stepchild shots—it doesn’t mean they’re not blacked out drunk.


Photo courtesy of mfarjado, flickr.