Jun
11
2010

4 incredibly assed-out things that I do when I’m drunk

 

#4: Try to get your dog drunk.

Look, this one’s horrible. You should never give a dog alcohol. But when I get rippin’, I will try. (I could include high, but that takes a little work and let’s face it; if you are going to work that hard to get a dog to inhale a popper or swallow some X, it’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that you intend to fuck it. Good pet owners, shit, even bad ones—the kind they arrest on “Animal Cops”—have the foresight to remove their animal from your vicinity before said fuckage occurs.)

Anyway. Somehow cats have the foresight to get themselves the hell out of these situations, and go knock around the mouse turds on the top of your fridge, but dogs will walk into any goddamn room with people in it and start eating and drinking anything at their eye level. Ashtrays. Bongwater. And oh yes, that dish of Mickey’s I just poured.

Fucking relax. This is a close up of Joan Rivers trying to kiss her own reflection. In some bongwater I spilled.

Before you go call PETA, I should let you know that I have never successfully pulled this off. Apparently, dogs don’t like the smell of shame or failure, both of which emanate strongly from me and have permeated my clothing.

“I don’t love them clothes.”

See?
 

#3: SHOUT EVERY SINGLE THING I SAY.

Like:

“BRO! BRO-BRO! CHECK OUT YOUR DOG! DUDE! MAN! HE’S SO FUCKING WAAAAAYSTED!”
“…the fuck, man…My dog isn’t moving, dude! What’d you do to him?

“SO LIKE, WHAT? YOU AND YOUR MAN HAVIN’ TROUBLES? YOU NEED TO TALK? YOU SHOULD COME OVER AND CHECK OUT MY STEREO…MY DAD GOT IT FOR ME…YEAH, HE OWNS A DEALERSHIP…”
“Dude. Why are you talking to my girlfriend?”

“…BUT I’M LIKE, COOL WITH IT, ‘COS IT’S NOT GAY IF YOUR BALLS DON’T TOUCH, RIGHT?? RIGHT??”
“Um, yeah, man. It kind of is.”

“HELL YEAH I’LL DRINK PAINT THINNER!! THINNA!! YEEEEEAH! THINNA FO DINNA! THINNADINNA! THINNAMADINDIN!! WHOOOOO!”
“Hey, can you chill out just a bit? You need to calm down.”
 

#2: Find a way to sing “Baby Got Back.”

I LIKE BIG BUTTS ON A CAN OF FLIES! YOUR OTHER BROTHER MOTHER AND MINE!

The kitchen was packed a moment ago….bitches can’t handle my hand of conga…

I’m not sure I need to elaborate on this much more…
 

#1: Piss everywhere BUT the toilet.

I don’t know what makes me think I am clever when I stumble into your bathroom and pee on every roll of toilet paper in there, but I gotta say, it’s funny as shit when I’m doing it.

In hindsight, I’m pretty sure that nothing puts a woman in a throat punching, stiletto heel heart stabbing, testicle crushing, murderous rage than having your skirt around your waist and grabbing a handful of piss sopped pulp to wipe with. Fortunately, you can gratify those throat-punchy, heart-stabby, ball-crushy urges practically instantly, because I’ll just be in the next room telling my “secret” to the dudes.

By shouting it.

DUDE, DUDE! DON’T SAY ANYTHING BUT I JUST PISSED ALL OVER THE PLACE! I DECIMATED EVERY ROLL KEVIN HAS, MAN! DUDE! NO ONE CAN TOP THAT!!

Oh, wait.

(This may explain the sexual “Dry Spell” I went through from 1989-2009.)
Wipe that fucking smirk off your face. 2010 ain’t over yet.

 
—Jason

Dog photo courtesy of Mike Fischer,  flickr.
Snoop photo courtesy of chicagofabulous,  flickr.
Drunk dancing photo courtesy of melle oh, flickr.
R Kelly photo courtesy of andrew steinmetz, flickr.
Joan Rivers photo courtesy of david shankbone, flickr.

 


Apr
06
2010

Drunk of the Day: “Where you there when I was asleep?”

—Josey

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.