Hammond, Indiana-A hangover that seemed like a manageable affair on initial onset has, within the confines of a twenty minute Uber ride, transformed into a terrifying examination of mortality and panic. The waves of nausea were angry that day, but nothing stirs the rotting excess in the belly of the beast like a 2005 Honda Civic with the heat blasting.
That and a driver who is hard-pitching a low-risk investment in his 3D printing company, are everything needed to consider the prospect of quietly passing away in the stained cloth seats without having made the slightest impact on the world.
The hangover swells to maximum strength as the driver asks about voting preferences right before admitting that a wall between the United States and Mexico may not be the worst thing in the world. Completely oblivious to the jaundiced insect, squirming helplessly for a position that will make it all go away. Its face suggests retching its misguided hopes and dreams with bile and gin, yet it suffers through one word replies, unable to seem impolite. But this hangover is beyond a simple vomit.
Night terrors. Unnatural tingling. A distinct faintness sets in and it becomes uncertain whether or not vital organs will remain intact or disintegrate into the floor with the uncanny amount of white dog hair. The 10 IPA’s drank last night may as well have been neglected Jacuzzi water out of a used condom. A steady sweat sits in and the gum being chewed transforms into vodka soaked aluminum foil.
Only 5-minutes have passed in a 20-minute ride and there’s no certainty of another solid bowel movement for the remainder of the year.
Beer and alcohol commercials are a complete nuisance. They generally exist as a reminder that whatever depraved creatures that created them are 1.)Immensely out of touch with reality 2.) Have never actually drank a drop of their product and 3.) Are aggressive and staunch virgins.
I know that the first thing I would do after scaling Everest would be to promptly reach for a Michelob Ultra, because I still have to maintain my boyish figure after the grueling climb. I know that when Ray Liotta vacantly looks at me from across the bar with a glass filled to the brim with 1800 gasoline, that I’m pissing myself then immediately throwing my beautifully crafted sazerac on the floor where it belongs. What I witnessed on 1/4/14 however is proof that the Budlight superstition commercials are about as accurate as it gets.
By halftime of the Colt’s game, the sulking was at an all-time high with my friend. They were down 28 to the limping Chiefs, in the first round of the NFL Playoffs. Several temper tantrums and tear drops later, the stench of both defeat and black mold lied heavy in the air. As he sat there watching his team get destroyed and the $200 bet he laid on the game was looking grim at best. Another friend suggested a tribute, a sacrifice that would ignite both his liver and the will to win for the diminished Colts…Smirnoff Raspberry. Specifically a mystery bottle that had been ditched from New Years Eve days earlier.
The answer had been there all along, nothing inspires a football team 100’s of miles away, and completely unaware of your existence like chugging Raspberry Vodka before key plays. With every possession the pulls from the bottle became more feverish and more frequent. A descent into complete oblivion. After what I counted to be a full 6 second chug, Andrew Luck miraculously recovered Donald Brown’s fumble and dove into the end zone. The turnovers, the injuries they were all being fueled by this otherwise bottle of undrinkable Smirnoff Raspberry. It seemed insane at first, but the consistency of it all was nothing short of mesmerizing…magical. One man put the entire Colts team on his back and trucked them through the first round…and it wasn’t anyone on the field that day. Those Budlight commercials were officially accurate on 1/4/14.