Hungover Ho


The great skies of Tokushima

Dear dog, what a rough morning.

I just woke up to the humdrum of a collosal headache, surpassed only by my friend's hungover proselytising about the dangers of nomihoudais (all-you-can-drink parties) and the loss of self control, much like the lyrics to that old Laura Brannigan song that I can't seem to stop humming now. I still remember it from the time I was a young sprog, tortured by it through the speakers on the backseat of the car as my mom picked me up from school. If only she had known that her poor taste in music would, years later, kick back with sadistic gusto. Or maybe she did. Mom never agreed to me drinking too much.

I drink fairly often (probably less than someone my age should), but not frequently to the point of last night's debauchery. "What does he know, he who only knows sobriety?" I suppose he knows a lot, starting with the fact that that drunks are annoying. And if he is a well educated fellow, he could also know a lot about epistemological theory. But I digress. Last night taught me that 3 minute drills with cheap stolen wine after going to a couple of bars is not a good idea. I also learnt a random fact about tourniquets, but that's beyond the point.

Despite my youthful looks, I'm old enough to know better. Besides, I'm a shit drinker. Perhaps not the worse one this side of Nanjing (for a national sport, drinking does take its sorry toll on many red-faced Japanese, some of them bushwhacked after only a few beers), but due to lack of practice I'm not one to "chug" things, let alone ascertain my masculinity -undoubtedly tattered in front of numerous pub clienteles by now- through nonsensical feats involving Satan's urine. Call me a cold rationalist, but judging the size of other men's bollocks by seeing how much liquid they can shove down their gullets is a particularly bizarre leap of logic. And why would you want to think of another man's bollocks anyway? Isn't that kind of gay to start with?

Still, I had fun. Sure, I might feel like arse and the denture in my wallet hurts like lemon juice on a mouth ulcer, but like a wise proverb of my people says: "lo comido y lo bailado no me lo quita nadie." Which roughly translates as something like "no one can take away what I ate and danced." What excellent Catholic values!

I need to lie down.