I know what you’re thinking; bad title. No one with a hangover or even the memory of a hangover would relish the thought of dissecting anything. Hangovers and dissection will often result in tossing your cookies in the general proximity of the gross anatomy lab. Trust me on that fact and we’ll leave it at that.
The worst part of the hangover for me isn’t the headache. Though it’s there, with bells on. No amount of pillows or darkness or ibuprofen will erase it. The nausea or general feeling of yuk isn’t the worst of it either.
The worst part of the hangover is my freaking imagination. That tiny grain of a thought that maybe this isn’t a hangover at all. That maybe the fact that I drank beers and shots and more beers last night is just a coincidence. There’s a blossoming idea in my head and it’s thumbing through the Rolodex of horrible central nervous system killers. Brain tumors and degenerative disorders with a side order of antibiotic-resistant infections. It’s building steam and branching out to other horrible illnesses.
Massive headache – isn’t that a sign of an sub-arachnoid hemorrhage and Dengue fever?
Sensitivity to light – that’s consistent with tumors on the optic nerve and Huntington’s Chorea, isn’t it?
Nausea – What illness doesn’t have nausea connected to it?
Soon I’ve convinced myself that I have some rare, horrific disorder. I’m then faced with yet another brutally upsetting idea. What if right now, lying in my bed trying to find a cool spot on the pillow to put over my face while suppressing increasingly moist, bourbon-scented belches is as good as it gets? What if every one of my days from here on out is even worse than this?! After all, this is the typical progression for Mongolian Brain Fever. You wake up one day with hangover-like symptoms, then within a month you’re lying in an iron lung with anti-nausea suppositories every 2 hours. Each day is worse than the one before it. I’ll look back in my morphine induced haze to this first day of hideous symptoms and wish I could feel this good again.
That’s it. Surely I’ve got Mongolian Brain Fever. Disregard the fact that I haven’t traveled to the Gobi Desert or ingested under-cooked Asian ground squirrel in the past several months. All logic is abandoned and I must accept that somehow it’s happened. I narrow it down to one of two questionable dietary choices in the previous couple of weeks. In a moment of extremely poor judgement, I had eaten one of those hot dogs on the heated roller thing down at the 7-11. I knew it was a bad idea, but I was weak with hunger and cash poor. The other possibility was that chicken salad from the week before last. I thought that it had might have been in the fridge a little too long, but when I smelled it, the fishy odor was very faint. Maybe I was too congested to notice, but it’s too late now. Before any of you smart asses start listing the differences between undercooked ground squirrel and chicken salad, allow me to point out that there are dozens of unscrupulous chicken farmers out there who will feed their hens any number of sketchy ingredients to fatten them up. We needn’t begin to speculate the actual ingredients of hot dogs. I know it’s all a little far fetched, but these kinds of delusions are typical with MBF.
Convinced that this horrid day will be the best one I have left as I close in on the great beyond, I struggle out of bed. I kiss my wife, despite her obvious annoyance with me, and my eyes well-up with tears. I’ll miss this place. I need to fight the throbbing in my head and get on with the business of the day. I had originally planned to spend the day cleaning out the garage and picking up dog dookie in the yard, but my plans must change. As this is likely the first day of my steep spiral down life’s drain, I’ll need to savor the hours I have left. I decide to spend my day on the couch, surrounded by my family as they work on the garage and clean up after the dog. I don’t want to burden them with the tragic news of my self-diagnosis. I want to enjoy them in their state of innocent bliss.
They’ll undoubtedly resent my lack of help today, but within a few weeks, they’ll regret their selfish, petty feelings as they witness my rapid wasting away. I’ll forgive them of course, they foolishly thought it was only a hangover.
Corned beef and cabbage, dying things green which should never be green, and most importantly, conspicuous over-drinking by hordes of amateur alcoholics.
Don’t start swinging your shillelagh, I’m not slamming the Irish. Nor am I mocking their holiday, even though it has morphed into some kind of national day of auditions for the next season of A&E’s “Intervention”.
As a former bartender, I’ve earned the right to speak regarding this holiday. People who aren’t in the hospitality industry often believe that snagging a shift on St. Patrick’s Day, New Year’s Eve or Cinco de Mayo would be some kind of coup for a bartender. In truth, working any of these three days should be avoided at any cost. St. Patrick’s Day will typically go something like this:
Your bread-and-butter regulars will stay home, not wishing to share their comfy watering hole with a bunch of yahoos who will all be gone by March 18th. Instead, hordes of novice boozers pour into your establishment. Essentially, these people have no business being in bars at all. Not only are they inept at the actual consumption of alcohol, but they also don’t know how to order, tip, or generally behave in a drinking establishment. They cram in there and start waving twenties or corporate credit cards while bellowing out orders. Once you’ve supplied them with their giant order, which invariably includes some sort of lace-panty shots involving whipped cream and six kinds of sweet liqueurs, they add on another couple of drinks for their friends who didn’t order the first time.
The noise is insane. The bar manager, with visions of dollar bills dancing in his empty head, has taken the normal music off and is cranking up some sort of hideous fiddle jigs in hopes of inspiring these chowderheads to drink even more. If Michael Flatley came river-dancing in, one could only hope he’d slip in a puddle of green beer You wish someone had reminded the manager that U2 and Van Morrison are both as Irish as Patty’s pig. Sinead O’Connor would sound like a choir of angels compared to what you’re hearing now.
You lean way across the bar to tell a customer with a bad toupee that the batch of drinks you just made for him is $27.50. By leaning across the bar, you don’t have to scream at this dolt – it’s going to be a long night, and you don’t want to lose your voice too early. He gestures for you to lean back over the bar to him, as he has some pressing news of his own. You do so. He brings his mouth within an inch of your ear, then screams out his request for a few more drinks, filling your ear with both the annoying sound of his voice and a fair amount of spit. You recoil from him, wiping out the Wet Willy he gave you as you make the additional drinks. His toupee resembles a flattened ground hog you saw on your drive to the bar, and there’s a snail-trail line where his skin meets the pelt – he’s not that good with the glue. His total is now $35. You deliver the second batch and he gives you two 20’s. There’s no way in hell you would give this guy a 5 dollar bill back. That’s a risk even when it’s not amateur night, so you put five ones down in front of him.
You turn to wait on the next person, but before you can, he wants your attention yet again.
“HEY!!” he screams.
You turn back to him hoping he’s not going to give you a third drink order. He’s holding one of those singles in his hand and making earnest eye contact like he’s about to give you life advice. Obviously he wants to make sure that you know that he’s the one leaving you this wildly generous single dollar.
“That’s yours, man!” he yells. Luckily you’re far enough away this time to avoid the spit.
As a seasoned professional, you know better than to take it personally when someone gives you a lame tip. You nod to Toupee Boy then turn and toss the buck into the tip can, which is entirely too empty for a bar as crowded as this.
You move onto the next money-waving stooge and hope for a more favorable outcome, but really, you know better. This one is a woman who is out with three of “her girls” from the office. Everyone knows they’re here, because despite the horrifically loud penny whistle and bagpipe soundtrack on the speakers, you can hear this lady and her cohorts screaming out “WHOOO!! ST. PADDY’S!! WHOOO-OO!” Her blouse is opened two more buttons than it was at the office just a few hours ago. Apparently, displaying her chubby taters more brazenly, along with a crooked shamrock tiara, is the dress code to let the world know that she and the other girls from accounts receivable are out to par-tay.
She orders, badly. Her spit mingles with the spit from the last guy and you can’t help but wonder whether real petri dishes would be jealous of the science project which is undoubtedly growing in your ear by now. The slim hope for avoiding infection is the high alcohol content in their saliva. The only silver lining is that the gobs of spittle help to drown out the infernal fiddle music. You together her drinks, making a mental check list for the bar-back to bring more whipped cream and energy drinks. She doesn’t tip at all. Apparently, she feels that blessing you with her presence and ass-like cleavage is payment enough. Hopefully, her presence will eventually pay some dividends – not likely in terms of financial gain, but because she may eventually be a player in some sort of idiotic shenanigans.
Speaking of Shenanigans, you can thank your lucky stars you don’t work at that dump. Since it has an Irish name – officially Shenanigans House of Ale and Fun-tastic Tavern (or SHAFT to its employees) – legions of rookie drinkers consider it a mandatory stop during their night of revelry. They don’t serve a single Irish beer. Rumor has it that management briefly considered Guinness Stout, but scratched that idea when they realized it looked ickier than usual with green food coloring in it.
You turn away from Cleavage Girl before she can add on more drinks for you to fetch. Let that pervert Jimmy the Weasel or one of your other cohorts behind the bar deal with her. There’s none of the teamwork that pooling tips usually brings – everyone is just trying to survive the night. The best chance of income is some rube forgetting his money on the bar. You see Toupee Boy out of the corner of your eye. He’s snagged Jimmy to fetch his next round of drinks. Jimmy rolls his eyes as he slides past you toward the back-up cans of whipped cream and the mini-marshmallows. He has a clover-covered bar nap in his hand which he’s using to swab out his ear.
A chronically short man has joined Cleavage Girl and her entourage. You christen him “Stumpy”. Stumpy has odd splash stains down the back of his suit jacket from bumping into his fellow drinkers at hip height. He’s drinking a glass of white wine, which couldn’t look worse for a guy in a bar scene, unless he’s wearing an ascot or is sitting with his mother. The wine glasses here are over-the-top big, and look even bigger in his stubby little hands. If the glass didn’t have a stem on it, he would likely have to use both hands to hold it. Despite his obvious shortcomings, Stumpy has thus far proven to be a decent tipper, bless his heart.
Cleavage Girl has to keep bending over to hear what Stumpy has to say, increasing the already obvious boob show with each bow. An adjacent table of foreigner men has abandoned their lively conversation – presumably about goat herding. They’ve swiveled their seats to enjoy the spectacle. These guys look to be from some distant land where alcohol is forbidden and women cover most of their faces in addition to all of their cleavage, hair and ankles. It’s a sad reflection on what passes for entertainment these days, but you enjoy watching them jump back and glare at her every time she let’s out one of those “WHOO!! ST. PADDY’S !!” war cries. The looks on their faces make you think that if she carried on like that back in the old country, they’d stone her to death, cleavage or not.
Stumpy has approached the bar to order Cleavage Girl and her cohorts a round of “Screaming Yellow Monkey Farts”. This is another convoluted, stupid drink consisting of enough sugary liqueurs and Red Bull to keep you awake and put you into a diabetic coma at the same time. Much like half of the micro-brews on the market, the best feature of this drink is its name. It tastes more like some kind of licorice-tinged lemonade than alcohol. As with most of the shots favored by teenagers and St. Pat’s patrons, the recipe is a major pain in the neck to make. Sadly, the flavor is not easily duplicated just by pouring vodka and Galliano into curdled sour mix, so you have to actually mix them to order. Stumpy looks like he has to resist the urge to rest his head on the bar, which is only an inch or two beneath his chin. He’s ordered five shots, so one is for him. Mixing your intake of different cocktails is a classic mistake of the amateur drinker. While a beer and a shot of whiskey is perfectly acceptable among legitimate drinkers, it’s not the same as combining copious amounts of pinot grigio with Screaming Yellow Monkey Farts. This cannot possibly end well.
Stumpy has got to play this just right. There are only a few days a year when looking like an elf or a leprechaun has any perks. If he grew a beard and wore shoes with big buckles on them, drunks in the parking lot would be shaking him down for his pot o’ gold. Actually, even without the leprechaun costume he might be in for a little trouble – that massive wine glass is like a beacon for the wrong kind of attention. He and the girls all whoop and laugh as they throw back the shots. Ironically, the concoction lives up to its moniker, as each person drinking them makes a face afterwards which looks like they’ve just caught a whiff of the drink’s namesake.
The night drags on. The screeching fiddle and bagpipe music does not grow on you, and it’s disturbing to note that as the loop plays over and over, you’re actually able to recognize a few of these hideous ditties. Toupee Boy eventually gets into trouble when, after being rejected by one of Cleavage Girl’s posse, he becomes despondent. He chooses to show just how pissed he is at the world by doing just that in an artificial palm tree in the lobby. The management and most of America take a dim view of public urination. It’s no great loss in management’s opinion, as he was already cut off from drinking and therefore was done parting with much more of his money.
The foreign contingent has departed without anyone noticing. It’s difficult to believe that their view of American culture (or of Irish culture for that matter) has improved much over the course of the evening.
Stumpy appears to be diligently wearing Cleavage Girl down. Her girlfriends have drifted away from her. You have to admit that you’re pulling for the little guy. The last shots he bought aren’t being tossed back just yet. Cleavage Girl has her shot of S.Y.M.F. in her hand on Stumpy’s shoulder. She leans down, teetering in her work heels to listen to whatever the hell he’s yelling over the screeching bagpipe solo. Unfortunately, the shot is not a high priority for her by this point in the evening and much of it is snaking its way down the back of Stumpy’s now irreparable suit jacket on its way to the floor, leaving little clumps of whipped cream along its trail.
Stumpy looks to be positioning himself to close the deal. His face looms closer and closer to her cleavage. It appears that Stumpy is a little less than discrete in his ogling of the goods – though at his height, it’s hard for him to miss the view. Then suddenly in what can best be described as Sam Pekinpah slow motion, the time bomb of white wine, shots of sugary booze and dairy topping reaches its unfortunate, inevitable conclusion. Stumpy spectacularly looses his lunch and a sizable financial investment in alcohol, right between the aforementioned boobies. The screech which issues from Cleavage Girl makes her earlier whoops seem tame by comparison.
She recoils violently, as you’d expect. This awkward movement, combined with her inebriated state and the puddle of spilled Monkey Farts is more than she can maintain. Her arms pinwheel and she executes a magnificently awkward fall. Stumpy has not quite finished and is letting go with a final spew onto the floor, which she lands directly in the path of.
Jimmy the Weasel has scrambled to your side behind the bar and it looks like he might have a moment of bladder incontinence as you both watch the show. Cleavage Girl’s last remaining colleague has come to her aid, baby-stepping to keep her balance, like the trainer at an ice hockey game trying to get to a fallen player. By the time they repair to the women’s room, her shirt is just about off, but unless you’re as depraved as The Weasel, there’s not much of a visual thrill when a shirtless woman is covered in this brand of glaze.
Stumpy takes advantage of the break in the action to leave as discretely as he can, stumbling into a cab out front. Cleavage Girl, looking pale and dressed in her friend’s coat, skulks out soon after. Amazingly, her green tiara is still on her head, albeit a little more crooked than before. It’s a safe bet that cabbies aren’t big fans of St. Patty’s day either.
Tomorrow, the regulars will be here, the music back to normal, and civilized drinking by seasoned professionals will commence once again.
As for tonight, you just enjoyed payment in full for a night spent tolerating the amateurs. We’ll see you guys and gals on Cinco de Mayo! You hope to hell you can get that night off…