There's nothing quite like a two-day hangover, and looking over the cringe-worthy pictures that fill in the pieces of what the drunk memory blacked out. The feeling of having your head on sideways with your brain as the loose component rattling around inside is also another factor that's hard to overcome. My remedy is to double-fist fried food sandwiches and pound down as much water as my body can possibly hold. Does this work, you might ask? No, not really, but it's what seems comforting during the irrational moment that precedes doing so.
We found ourselves amidst the crowds that gathered at Churchill Downs on Oaks day this past weekend, and without having been searched before entering, we were thus able to smuggle in nearly two fifths worth of liquor. One that was of some sort of disgustingly flavored vodka, maybe strawberry, possibly dingle-berry, because it tasted like straight dookie. And the other, I believe it to have been Jack Daniels, but truthfully, none of us remembered. We pointed out the cheap stuff from the wall of alcohol at the liquor store when making our purchase, because our rationale was that if we got caught, then it would have only been a few dollar mistake. While peeling the bottles from my inner thigh and pubic area, not only the hair from my manhood was painfully lost, but the label of the liquor wrapper was as well, completely leaving the question of which brown liquor we were ingesting a mystery forever. That didn't really make as big of a difference to us as drinking alcohol that had transferred the same temperature as my manhood. After all, this is the warmest part of the male anatomy, so you could just imagine how warm the shots were that we were killing. Yeah, drinking liquor that warm isn't something I'd suggest, and the feeling of having to drink every bit of it because you were smart enough to get it by the gates isn't as smart as it is retarded when you haven't eaten anything all afternoon while baking in the eighty degree weather as the sun beats against your skin.
We stumbled around in the infield people watching, drinking, and laughing until our stomachs and cheeks hurt. When the alcohol was completely finished, we continued to stumble around a bit longer, and at some point remembered that we also had smoke bombs that we had gotten past the entry gates without red flag. In a drunken momentary lapse of reason I felt that it would be a good idea to throw these bombs toward some of the vendor's booths. A small crowd gathered for the spectacle, which was hilarious to us, infuriating to others, but luckily we ran out of arsenal before the authorities could catch up with us. Shortly afterward, the buzz that we all had carried between us became too strong, so we made our way back to my vehicle. Unfortunately, it was blocked in by two other cars, so my friends bought some canned beer while I spun out, wishing that I could yack my guts up, but after the pre-puke drooling ceased I just passed out in my car with the windows down, the air conditioner on, and the doors opened. It was but just a measly four hour coma that I had taken, but when I awoke it was dark outside, and all of my friends were gone. They had migrated to some party on the other side of town. So what'd I do? I found the greasiest hamburger around, inhaled it, and then drove my worthless ass to the same party so I too could indulge in more debauchery.
I woke to the sound of heavy rain droplets beating against the window seal of my apartment bedroom, and though I brushed my teeth before passing out, the taste of funk was upon my choppers. My stomach felt ill, twisted like an embedded corkscrew, and queasy like Sunday morning. It was Derby day, the actual quasi-holiday that my friends and I should have been getting down to, but the celebrating spirit that was inside of me the day before had caught the red eye flight just hours before my waking. There were parties that I was supposed to attend, free entry into the infield once more if I were interested, and more drinks to be consumed. The thought of all this made me want to spill my guts into the toilet, but instead, I showered, got clothed, and upon exiting the restroom was handed a freshly made mixed drink. It was the hair of the dog, and I bit it. Twenty minutes later that queasy feeling had evaporated, and I was back in the saddle again.
The day crept by at a slow gin pace as we consumed the food prepared by friends, and watched the races from televised broadcasts, all the while I never seemed to completely wake up. Time seemed to stand still in my mind, and for once I was glad that I didn't make the trek out to the downs. More alcohol was consumed, though a true buzz was never actually established. More food was consumed, though I could have put it down all day like my stomach was a bottomless trash compactor. And as the day wore on the number of guests dwindled away and dissipated like feathered dandelion spores being blown into the wind. When I woke the next day I still felt a bit cruddy, nursing the same hangover that Friday provided me, but spent the day with close friends going thru similar motions. I've been there a hundred times or more in my lifetime, feeling queasy like Sunday morning.
Photo courtesy of Damian Gerlach