Overconsumption. It’s not a real word. And even if it were, it’s not one you’d hear out of my mouth. It implies too much consumption, as if there were such a thing. Consumption, let me remind you, is a good thing. More of it is a better thing. Case closed.
But like any ironclad rule, this one has its exception, and I seemed to have stumbled upon it Thursday night. I’ll call it, for lack of a less literal term, beer No. 26. It started at that meat market Drink, continued on to the Bulldog, and ended with a thud (or a splash) the next morning in the john.
Regular readers of this blog will not be shocked to hear me admit to a certain proclivity for, as the ivory tower killjoys like to call it, binge drinking. That is, tipping back five, six, …26 beers over an extended period of uninterrupted merriment. Most folks indulge in a few bouts of binge drinking in high school and college, only to later abandon the practice in the mistaken belief that adulthood precludes such activities.
I’ve not taken to such misguided assumptions. As I see it, binge drinking served me well in high school, even better in college (save for that unfortunate “gay” sex video), so why turn one’s back on it in adulthood, when the need to blow of some steam reaches its apex?
And so, if only to stay sharp, I’ve made a habit of embarking on the occasional bender. Mind you, I’m not talking about some namby-pamby “oooh-I’ve-had-four-glasses-of-wine-and-now-I’m-flirting-with-Kevin-from-
accounting” sissyfest. I’m talking about a knockdown drag out consumption orgy that would make any self-respecting Alaskan Native, and my uncle Frank, proud. (Editor’s note: Please hold your fire regarding the Alaskan Native remark. Harold once lived in Alaska, and personally knows a number of first-class Native winos, and, frankly, aspires to be one.)
I hope I’ve made myself crystal clear on this point. I’m in favor of binge drinking. I’m a fan. I’d do it as my day job if someone would pay me. And I’m good at it. Very good. Joe Mauer good. But even I’m no match, evidently, for beer No. 26.
I’m ashamed to admit that. Once, in answer to a doctor’s health form query about alcohol use, I answered seven drinks per day. Honesty is the best policy, right? I’m a drinker. That’s what I do. But beer 26 has made me think twice.
And you would too, dear reader, if you saw me Friday morning. At my nadir, I was vomiting in my shorts while taking a shit (or blowin’ mud, more to the point.) I think I cracked a rib. My cats appear to have lost all respect. And rumors are circulating at work.
I was beat. Beer No. 26 bitch-slapped me and then threw me out like yesterday’s tampon. One minute I’m riding high, slurring and spitting and lurching in classic Dudley Moore fashion, and the next thing I know I’m picking last night’s pizza out my jockeys. Not a pretty sight.
Friends, I’m down. But not out. I’ve not come this far to let one big setback like beer No. 26 ruin half a life’s work. No wagon rides for this lush. I’ll be back. Look for me. I’ll be the guy asleep at the bar.