Further Evidence Eggnog Is Mayhem in a Dixie Cup.
Eggnog – bane of Western Civilization.
Happens like clockwork – Week before Christmas – party season.
Tinsel – mistletoe – Santa wannabes – clever exchanges – love sometimes.
And out comes Eggnog – somebody’s special concoction. Somebody whose name you can’t pronounce but he’s your long-lost brother anyway.
Enough Rum to put Jamaica on notice – enough gooey/sweet creamy yellow stuff to make you forget you’re drinking a thermo-nuclear device. Enough ganja to turn the room into a cloud.
Proclamations get loud – music gets louder – clothes become optional.
Object of your affections is giving off white-hot vibes while her boyfriend is somewhere getting complicated with somebody else’s girlfriend.
You drift sideways around the room. Your confidence is bullet-proof – your body functions; not so much.
Yakking up a batch of Christmas Cheer – slap your face with cold water – stagger out of the bathroom and do it all over again. You’re a pro at this – they should name a drink after you.
She with the white hot vibes disappeared – it would have been a match made in heaven, but c’est la vie – if last years Christmas party is any gauge you’ll be falling in love at least three more times before you go blank.
Your dilated pinball eyes scan the room while a permanently unlit Kent with Micronite Filter dangles precariously from your mouth. You’re on a roll – coolness is flying off your fingertips and witty repartee oozes out like a pinched blister.
She’s holding up a wall – you join her. She hates people – so do you. She likes your hair – you like her tits. Thirty seconds flat and its tonsil hockey. She tastes like breath mints – her lips melt your brain – you ask the magic question – she nods the magic answer and the night is yours.
You are dreaming an obnoxious clock-radio – a bright, sickening cheerful one that keeps getting larger and louder and you can’t stop it is blasting in your ear.
You force your one good eye open and gaze stupidly at the culprit – KMET slicing through December like a Ginsu, tearing through your one good brain cell like a red-hot poker.
You forgot they made hangovers like this – you forgot how much your mouth could resemble Summer in Tehachapi. You also forgot you could smell like a landfill.
You also forgot that on mornings like this you are seldom alone.
The sound of a four-alarm fart bounces around the room and brings with it an aroma that would make a Clydesdale cry.
With your other eye you turn your head to face somebody you don’t recognize – somebody who looks like a flabby twelve-year old boy – somebody with breath that could melt a Brinks truck – someone whose makeup has smeared all over the sheets and pillow – someone whose face is swollen to the size of a basketball – smiling.
Your head is cracking open. You roll over and stare at the clock radio. Your clothes are nowhere to be found. Your soggy brain is trying to find something diplomatic to say while you make a run for it.
Where is your car?
And while you’re trying to sort that out, here is 45 minutes worth of Shadoe Stevens and Brother John from December 20,1974 at KMET.
And we have this year-end Fundraiser to consider:
