I could stop if I would…

Well I’ve added a few new writers to the roster, I’m sure you’ll be seeing some of their work pop up here pretty soon. With traffic going steadily up to ridiculous levels, I reckon the more writers we have on staff, the more the likelihood of having something fresh on the top of the blog list. We’ll see what happens. You can check out their profiles on the writers page.

This weekend Roger and I went out on the boat for a few hours with his lovely fiancee and a buddy of his, and his CopperHound, Spud. Being out in the sun and feeling rather good, I began to imbibe the thick heady golden liquid I love so well. We were anchored and tied up to another boat in the party cove, and I was in the water with my feet between the arms of a life vest, just floating there, throwing the football with a group of guys I’d never met.

The time between when I finished one beer and asked Roger to toss me another one, until the time I tossed him that empty and asked for yet another one, I think I’d maybe thrown and received the football four times. This might have been three minutes. And it wasn’t that I was tagging one on. I rarely drink to get anything other than very slightly drunk. I don’t like to slosh. No, but friends, this was going down like a cheap hooker on the date rape drug. Like dixie cups full of water, I poured one back after another, with no regard or thought to what the outcome would be.

And I was fine. I took the remainder of my beers from the cooler and stuffed them back in the original 18-pack box I had brought alone with me, and hopped off the boat (when it was time to go, of course) and headed to the jeep. We had a CD listening party to attend, where we’d meet Blake and Marty and eat burgers, drink beer and listen to our entire CD start-to-finish.

When I got home and put dry clothes on, I realized that I might be in a little trouble. I felt a little stumbly. I decided I’d take the remainder of my boat beers to Marty’s for the party, so I poured them in a cooler with ice. Seven beers fell out of the box and into the cooler. I looked in the box to make sure there weren’t four or five stuck up in there somewhere. There wasn’t. I had indeed drunk eleven beers in a little under three hours.

I’m still a lightweight when it comes to beer drinking. I’ve been a faithful drinker now for many years, and drink on most weekends, but like I said – not to get stupid. I’m a grown-up now. When I go to parties, my main intention is not to get shitty and throw up. I like to – on a good weekend night – drink about five or six, maybe seven and feel nice and warm inside. So eleven in three hours was definitely a record for me. One I’d never intended to come close to breaking.

So I started drinking water immediately, realizing my mistake, and when Roger showed up, we rolled out to Marty’s – with a sober driver, mind you – with waters in hand. And that’s how it stayed all night. I began to sober up in a few hours, but it wasn’t a pleasant few hours. I don’t like being that drunk. I’m thinking I need to get some red pepper or a jar of bee stingers – something – to put in my beers next time I’m out on the lake. At least that way I’ll feel it going down and not be so inclined to speed through them.

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