What is it about bars and drinking that can turn a normally sane person into a slobbering, drooling dung beetle? Hooch can make a man say things he'd never think of sober and for reasons as yet unexplainable, he'll happily run head-long into predicaments that would make him blush when unencumbered by the stuff.
Of course, we all understand that booze tends to "let loose" the tongue but could it be that it also incites our minds with a torrent of intellectual stimuli which in turn, makes us sexier, more suave and indwelt with Nobel caliber intelligence? Just think about it. The world is suddenly at your feet and all it takes to attain this level of prominence is a couple of shots of rotgut.
Of course, my numerous personal experiences have left little doubt as to my place in the societal pecking order. I found that use of the juice seemed to transform me into someone smarter, more handsome and a virtual swan on the dance floor. But, I always awoke in the a.m. to find that I was none of the above. Truth be told, I woke up in a fog of pain and embarrassment with a mouth that tasted like a decayed sheep dog. But there were worse things. How do I explain this? Have you ever been trapped inside a metal bucket with Z.Z. Top?
Oh, the times I've sat in my local "gentleman's club" knowing full well that the other mere mortals in attendance were in awe of me. I sat, leaning back in all my majesty with my shirttail hanging out and mouth gaping open with tiny drops of saliva trickling down my chin.
We should take note here that I was never thrown out of the joint because I was performing a valuable service for the establishment. After all, many a barroom fly had dropped to the floor stone cold dead after a mere fly-by (no pun intended) of that cavern I call a mouth.
So, there I sat, the epitome of fashion, slayer of flies and one with the absolute assurance that I was the smartest man in the universe. Seen everything. Done EVERYTHING!
Of course, those in my kingdom would have been taken aback had they seen me later as I squatted over the great porcelain throne like a buzzard vomiting tree stumps. My abdominal muscles would be as tight as a dynamite carrier's rectum as my insides loosed a trail of stuff that would have taken the chrome off a '56 Caddy. I would then continue the struggle until there was nothing left in my stomach. This produced something we called "the dry heaves" which left me gasping for breath so bad I could have probably suck-started a Kawasaki.
And I did this for years. I figured the normal progression of all things human was to get drunk, get sick, throw up everything I'd eaten for the last three months and spend the weekend feeling like warmed-over monkey crap so we could get together on Monday and talk about what a good time we had. How's that for superior intellect? I mean, you don't have to be head stunner at the slaughterhouse to figure that one out. Yet I somehow managed to miss that particular piece of logic.
It never dawned on my little pea brain that, most of the time, I was the only one in my group of friends to end up stooped over in the bathroom like a demented toilet bowl examiner. They would be laughing cheerfully while I was not-so-cheerfully heaving up my insides with a force that could have popped the pistons out of a top-fuel dragster. I hate to admit it but, there were a few times when I couldn't make it insde and I believe I actually killed grass along with a few small trees and on one occasion, concrete (if that's possible). Any question as to why I quit drinking? Didn't think so.
One of my most memorable experiences was at College Station, Texas where some cronies and I had spent too long at a landmark establishment and downed one (or 50) too many of the house specialties. My stomach was churning like a Maytag on steroids but I hadn't made the fatal trip to the great room yet so we decided to stop in at a local restaurant and get something to eat. As we took our seats, I noticed a sad looking specimen in a corner booth and remember thinking that he had us all put to shame. Any self-respecting corpse-in-a-swamp would have been proud to have his complexion. His eyelids drooped like a Crayola in a camp fire, covering eyes that looked as dead as Pancho Villa's chihuahua. His body was weaving back and forth like a willow in a spring breeze and looked as limp as Nicky the Noodle at a pasta-fest. Still, he managed to get as semi-erect as any Cro-Magnon with appendicitis and slithered toward the bathroom.
My stomach was feeling a little better so I soon forgot about him and gave my order to the waitress. I was gaining some small amount of confidence in getting a reasonably good night's sleep when I heard a sound coming from the bathroom that sent chills up my spine. It was one of those sounds that wake you in a sweat at 3:00 a.m. It was one of those Jason, Freddie, Halloween, make-you-jump-straight-up-to-heaven sounds. It's hard to describe to the drinking apprentice but try to visualize a metal barn full of French socialites who walk in and see me wearing a string bikini and a coon skin cap. I think I did that once.
"Yeeeeeeaaaarrrrrrrrggggggggghhhhhhhhhhh!" he said.
I calmly turned to the waitress and said, "Check please".
I could feel my insides starting to churn and hoped I could make it to the hotel before I pulled a Mount St. Helens in a public place.
As I walked across the parking lot, I couldn't help but wonder if my cronies and I would ever learn? Would I live to see tomorrow so I could? Would Holiday Inn ever allow us back? Would their swimming pool ever again become inhabitable?
But, that was small potatoes because I knew that in addition to whatever torment I had already subjected myself to, the time would come when I must face "the little woman". But, as with all true drinkers, fly assassins and procelain aficionados, this was only a minor hurdle. After all, are we men or are we mice?
Come on.......Squeak up!
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