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Sportface stares into his overstocked and disorganized liquor cabinet. He pulls out seven bottles and lays them on his kitchen counter. Then he puts down the unwashed shot glasses that stand there like obedient soldiers about to be summoned into diabolical duty.
First, one he fills is a Fireball in honor of his new pal Frizz. Down the esophagus. Burning sensation. Head shakes. Like putting gasoline on a match.
Next one: Baileys Irish Cream in an orange juice glass on the rockets. Guzzle guzzle. Down.
Next is gin, straight up, out of the shot glass. He tilts his head back, closes his eyes, and wishes to feel pain as the gin which tastes like turpentine burns his chest.
Then there’s his bottle of Jack Black. Screw the shot glass. He just drinks that right out off the bottom one gulp followed by another and another. Oh, that hurts. Life hurts. Losing hurts.
Oh who cares, he thinks. There’s nothing worth caring about anymore.
What else do I have? Oh, some rum. Good old rum and coke on ice. Why not? Have a full 16-ounce glass. Chug it. Just do it. It’s bound to make you feel better and make you forget about whatever happened earlier in the day that is making you feel so atrocious.
More booze. It’s like a merry-go-round on the booze ride. One hit of booze then another in random fashion with no particular order because who cares about sequence when all you want to do is drink so much your insides burn so the tragic pain makes you forget about everything that happened earlier in the day.
Just drink. Keep drinking. Make sure it’s out of control and over the top and does not stop. Keep up the pace. Shot glass here, bottle swig there, put your right foot in and you shake it all about.
Think about Frizz. He turned you on to fireball shots last week and now you’re keeping up the momentum tonight because it tastes like candy and you love sweet things that have a bite that makes your shoulders shiver and your forehead fume.
Just drink. Drink some more. Drink until you’re drunk and then drink more and drink more and get more drunk and drink drunk.
This goes on. Sportface thinks about the guy he met last week named Greggggggg Reynolds who is much more of a dependable fella than Will Reynolds.
They both sucked in their salad days but Gregggg Getttttttts it. He sits with Sportface at football games while Will thinks he’s cool for being the only person in North America without a cell phone. Renegade Reynolds sucks more than Gregggg Reynolds.
Feeling woozy and nauseous? You’re probably about to toss chunks so go to the bathroom and bend over and feel that lift-off in your belly rising up through your chest and through your throat and out your pie hold into the bowl below where you see all sorts of chunks of snacks Hanby bought earlier in the day because he was nervous about something and worried about what he might see so he got popcorn and peanuts and Chick-Fil-A and coke and beer and then back to the bathroom.
Throw all that up. There it is in the bowl. Study it. Feel another cluster of chunks coming up for air. Growl as you grunt and puke it all up. So much junk food and so much alcohol mixing in so short a time. Forget everything. Forget life. Forget existence.
Forget what’s on your mind. Forget what’s troubling you.
Take more shots.
Sportface goes back to the kitchen. Three other fireball cinnamon shots in honor of his pal Frizz. Man do those taste good. Finish the rest of the 16-ounce bottle of rum and then wash that down with some Jack Black and just keep cycling through in that sequence 10 more times. And then 10 more times.
Back to the toilet. Puke it all out. Rinse and repeat, all night long without losing any momentum. Steadily, do this to yourself because you want to and feel it’s what’s called for.
Ask yourself this question: Does it really matter? Is your reaction over the top? Should you rethink this coping strategy you’ve decided to embrace?
Puke some more. More shots.
Give me more shots. And more shots.
Drink so much that you can’t see or hear or read any of the text messages you’re getting from around the nation from Baby Boomer Brothers mocking you
Make them all a blur. Make life one big fog attack.
Just drink. And drink. And drink.
Never ever stop drinking, not for the rest of your life.
Face the truth: This is the end.
To be continued…
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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