Monday, March 16, 2009

Drunkenness Is Next To Godliness

What if we had to drink to stay sober? And when I say “drink,” I don’t mean treat oneself to an occasional swallow-and-spit of aged Cabernet with a side of room temperature cheese. I’m talking extreme alcohol absorption of the mind melting sort, using a snarling Billy Idol, toothless Eddie Van Halen, or pre-presidential George W. (during his cocaine-addled years) as worthy templates. Suddenly, sneaking a little hooch in the office fire stairwell without the promise of illicit sex would swing from Capricious Binge to Sanity Regulator faster than you can say “three beer funnel.”

For my part, past attempts at keeping hydrated in the workplace were far from exemplary, seeing as how repeated trips to the water cooler can shatter the rhythm of a perfectly placed bond swindle, not to mention interrupt web surfing and personal calls. So it’s a fair guess that I’d have difficulty adhering to this regiment of anti-drunkenness, regardless of open taps offering Mad Dog 20/20 or a soda machine refurbished to hold Colt 45, stocked by Billy Dee Williams himself, bi-weekly. On the other hand, women – diligent as they often are – would surely adhere to the prescribed diet of (fruity flavored) booze, if not for the sanctity of sobriety than for the fear of an unchecked buzz resulting in extracurricular hanky panky. Those innocent broom closet extramurals have a funny way of drawing out paternity expenses or, dare I say, wire coat hangers. But just as maxims touting the inability of males to handle pregnancy (insert pain jokes here) or menstruation (fully turning over one’s wardrobe within the year) have grown exhausting, the same men-are-wusses reasoning applies to a world where imbibing like late ‘80’s Mötley Crüe becomes a responsible act. In other words, men would fail in keeping with this hypothetical mandate. We’d complain, and we’d forget, and we’d thus be perpetually off the reservation like an oversexed army of aroused chimpanzees.

Suddenly, your inhibited Homo Sapien is a sexually riotous Homo Erectus (or riotous Homo, depending on predisposition), drawers dropped to grope, thrust, and defile everything within a whore’s breath of the daily commuting route. How tempting to avoid Billy Dee’s vending wares for evenings of raucous debauchery, where the only thing “working every time” would be random infiltrations of equally impaired soda drinkers. Would I accidentally screw my neighbor’s wife because I spent the weekend rifling cover-to-cover through Barron’s without so much as a mimosa; awakening next door at some ungodly hour, hammered way out of my skull at the tail end of a 48 hour erection with Coolio’s “Fantastic Voyage” blaring from an unknown radio? Or, Lord strike me down, would I wake up next to her husband?

Best to keep in the good graces of the wonderful (toothless?) folks at the Boone's Farm. I prefer my marriage intact and my Coolio at a safe distance.

3 comments:

GartnerDogg said...

1. Who would be crazy enough to engage in illicit sex in the office stairwell? Come one, let's get serious here, Bastard.

2. Excellent reference to Fantastic Voyage. Just slide slide, slippity slide..

MVD said...

Gartner Dogg:

(3) Who would be crazy enough to engage in illicit sex in the office stairwell (or motor lodge), then shake hands with the victim’s husband after returning her home, sweaty and defiled

(4) see #3, except note that said husband is a huge and menacing black man

...just asking

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