Oh god, what have I done?

The best thing about celebrating a birthday is having a good time with friends. The worst thing about having a good time with friends is the morning after. The best thing about the morning after is... the morning after the morning after, when you don't feel like death warmed over, cooled down, heated in a microwave, dropped between the stove and the fridge, and discovered months later, covered in cat hair.

I woke up multiple times today. The first time was just a preliminary wake up, alerting me that I did in fact have limbs and a head. The second time was to urinate... painfully. Upon standing up and realizing that I was, indeed, hungover, I immediately regretted that balmy evening in Columbus, OH in March of 1981, when I was conceived. After I got back into bed, I started thinking about all the hangovers I have had, and what I do about them. The one I had this morning necessetated slow movement and massive amounts of liquid, taken in small doses. Since I'm an educator as well as an entertainer (an entercator? an edutainer?) I've decided to share my observations... Here are the six types of hangovers and what to do about them.



The direct approach hangover is characterized by a general feeling of ill health, meaning that when you can open your eyes, you imagine that you see thousands of garden gnomes using your soul as a toilet/bird cage/fax machine while stripping your body of all will to survive the trip to the bathroom that you so desperately need. The banter between your body and the hangover goes something like this...

Hangover: Get up. (kicks you in the face)
You: Why, God? Please leave me alone.
Hangover: Get UP. (kicks you in the face)
You: What must I do, warden?
Hangover: Get to the kitchen and make coffee. (kicks you in the face)
You: May I cry, sir?
Hangover: Make me coffee. (kicks you in the face)
You: Please don't hurt me!
Hangover: Eat a bag of dicks.

The solution: Drink fluids when you can move without wanting to vomit, shower, eat something, cancel all plans for the remainder of the day, make funeral arrangements every time you sneeze or blink, write out your will in your own vomit.



The covert assassin is the most nefarious of all. You wake up. Everything seems lovely. The birds are swaying, the trees sing. You may go for a walk after breakfast. You start to prepare a lovely mushroom and Gruyere omelet. Things seem fine. Then, suddenly, all the bad things you've ever done take physical form. They turn into a superpower. You get super senses, so perfectly honed that you would scream if you could find your face. The smell of mushrooms, usually so alluring, make you want to vomit up your lungs. You would run to the toilet, but you stub your toe on the door jam of the kitchen, which causes you to temperarily black out. You find your voice and let out a scream, which causes the demon behind you to finally cut the Damaclidean sword loose so it splits your skull. The taste in your mouth turns into an ashtrays toilet, and the sight of food finally does bring up that vomit that makes you think you're going to die. You skulk off to the bathroom and pray for a quick death.

Solution: Stop it before it starts. When you wake up and feel fine, realize that this feeling is a lie perpetrated by a god that doesn't love you. Take precautions, and move, slowly, to the bathroom with a blanket and glass of water, and wait.



The mining head beasts enter your head after you're sedated by so much alcohol. They wait until you've woken up to go to work. These beasts are mining for whatever rubies live in your skull, and since they don't find any, they keep digging, searching for any precious stones. You have none. They then decide that it's your fault, and start to get mean. These beasts are all mad, on a high protein diet, and especially gassy. Every time you decide to change your elevation by a fraction of an inch, they light their emissions and laugh.

Solution: Don't move quickly, the beasts don't know you're moving if you stay at about an inch an hour. When you reach the bathroom, drink water and take asprin... half a bottle should do it. Then return to bed and cry.



You realize that anything you do or say to your stomach will cause it to object in the most strongest terms. You will vomit things you hadn't eaten since kindergarten. It will also feel like a roiling hell broth of uninvited guests is in your stomach, and your colon doesn't like it. The dialouge...

Colon: Seriously? Who invited these guys?
Stomach: Chill, man. They're my friends.
Colon: Every time they come here you regret it.
Pizza: I just smeared ketchup on the sofa. I am unapologetic about my odor. You do not need this lining.
Stomach: See? He's hilarious!
Colon: He just felt up my dog! I want him out!
Stomach: Let him stay for a while. What could it hurt?
Cottage cheese: I pooped in your fridge. I have given all your friends Mein Kampf and all of Ann Coulter's books in your name. You should be expecting a call from the FBI soon regarding some calls I made from your phone.
Stomach: That's hilarious!
An entire bag of cold, ultra spicy hot wings: I'MMA FUCK YER WORLD SO HARD IT'LL HAVE MUPPET BABIES!!!
Colon: You're gonna pay for this in the morning.

After you've vomited up most of your life, you will get the dry heaves. Anything, including performing oral sex on Ayn Rand's corpse, would be preferable.

Solution: There is none. Wait for it to pass. And call a lawyer. You're going to want to sue Gordon's Gin.



You're going to poop. A lot. Otherwise you feel fine, but it's like someone snuck in to your bedroom the night before and replaced all your inner workings with stuff that your body has no choice but to reject, like liquefied dung beetle genitalia, hand sanitizer, and dandruff shampoo. There is not enough toilet paper in the world, so you end up using your cat. Your cat is not happy with this. You don't care.

Solution: Pepto and crackers. And water, for most of the water in your body has turned into... never mind.



You're still drunk. It's not the fun drunk, either. It's the drunk that happens when you don't mean for it to. Like when you accidentally inject yourself with vodka. What happened? You slept a full eight hours. Sure, you drank enough to make Dylan Thomas impressed, but after a full nights sleep, you should be hungover, not drunk. Why? Because as you were sleeping, unicorns surrounded your bed, creating a time vortex that slowed time around you, but let normal time continue. So technically you only slept an hour. God damn unicorns.

Solution: You're still drunk, why tempt fate? Go ahead and keep drinking. What have you got to lose?

Song of teh post: Sick of Being Sick, by The Damned
Drinks of teh night before teh post: 1 gin and tonic, 2 gin on the rocks, 2 vodka cranberries, 3 beers, 1 bottle of wine, and a bucket full of regret.