Tall Angry Monster

One Burbon, One Scotch, One Beer...

06/12/2008 7:36 AM

So I've been on this "Tall Boy" kick lately, because white trash beverages amuse me. If you're not in the know, a "Tall Boy" is a standard can of beer, but about 4 oz. larger. Generally these fantastic fellows are only available in 6-Pack form and can be found in such classy flavors as: Pabst Blue Ribbon and Special Export. Anyway, for some reason this increased consumption of red neck beer has captivated my interested in drunken trends.

Maybe it's just the geek in me, but I find these not so startling discoveries via graph form to be quite interesting. Most notably the tendancy for one's inhibitions quickly dissipate after a few magical beverages. The results are actually quite astounding if you think about it.

For example, my urinating process isn't particularly shy whilest in a majestic forest somewhere in the wilderness. Citywise, however, I keep things in my pants until an appropriately sanctioned receptacle is available. Pour a 12 pack down my throat, and suddenly the neighbor's backyard, public buildings, the local playground and offensive vehicles (Read: Trucks sporting a confederate flag rear window) all become appropriate receptacles.

Another point of interest is the craving for previously undesirable foods. Peanuts and popcorn don't sound particularly delicious, until beer 3 or so. By the time I've reached beer 9, strange cravings begin to take over. Suddenly Taco Bell and Burger King sound like a good idea. By beer 11, all reason has been lost. Despite the digestive punishment I'll soon be paying, White Castle becomes a tantalizing mistress. Terms like "sliders" and "anal leakage" are no longer of concern.

And of course, there's the ridiculous shit we'll do for the ladies. At 1 or 2 drinks, I still know my chances with the ladies lie somewhere between slim and a number divisible by zero. A few shots later, and the mind begins to think something might actually happen with a little effort. Copious levels of alcohol later, and its entirely plausible to find me somewhere doing something you couldn't otherwise pay me to do. In that mysterious place just before blackout drunk, its possible to find nerds in some ridiculous club, dry humping the leg of a table, dancing like a goat having a seisure.

17 Hours later I'm lying on my back trying to find the strength to roll out of bed, attempting to grasp some understanding of how the hell last night happened. Still another 8 hours later and I'm looking forward to tonight's shenanigans. Its a mind boggling process.

Beside's imminent liver failure, what have I learned from this research?

THE STAY PUFFED MARSHMALLOW MAN IS FUCKING SCARY

- Mike

That is 2 Ls