By Matt Collins
Oh boy, I bet I’m so sauced right now. Like, 90’s B-Boy throwing my hands in the air like I just don’t care while simultaneously trying to start a, “I say party, you say time. Party! _____ Party! ____”. Bet I’m acting like a grade-a buffoon at this very moment. A brave man would ask himself, “why?” Being a coward, I ask myself the far more entertaining question, “how?”
Gin? I like gin; it turns my tongue into an ice rink that my words try to walk across while wearing sandwich bags for shoes. It turns my “riveting” monologs into a sound reminiscent of Sylvester the Cat’s lisp sitting on a Whoopee Cushion. My (me in the present writing this) only hope is that (future me, drunk me, me at the time of you reading this) has the self-respect to drink from the top-shelf. The British Epidemic is a harsh mistress to tangle with; gin is winning a competition nobody else knew existed. It’s standing next to a mountain, then taking it down with the edge of your hand. Gin is your rock bottom if you don’t treat her, and yourself, with r-e-s-p-e-c-t. Granted, no matter what, you’re going to feel terrible in the morning, but trust me, your body knows the difference between a gut-rot gin hangover and a the top-shelf morning dizzies, even if you don’t.
I’m probably drinking beer. Beer is great; like the boisterous best friend from your school days, he (or she) is Labrador loyal, not afraid to tussle you around and get your hair messy whenever you’re taking yourself a bit too seriously, plus, it’s the cause for your most entertaining stories. Beer is your favorite album, played loud and proud. But if you’re listening to it alone in your room, it’s more than a little sad. Beer is Pac-Man (or Woman), easy to play, hard to master. Beer is for beards and women that punch as a sign of affection. Beer is a politician (but don’t hold that against it).
Oops, forgot that I’m on a diet, guess I’m drinking wine. Wine is like a blogger who writes a piece about alcohol for no other reason than to showcase how right he is. Wine is a self-important little twit that you can‘t help falling in love with. Your eyes glaze over, you feel like vapor from a fog machine surrounding your beloved on a dance floor for one. Your lover is shoulder dancing to the rhythm of a harpsichord and you’re lapping up every second of it, the ethereal-love-smoke. It’s this kind of coddling feeling that makes drinking wine the only alcoholic beverage socially acceptable to imbibe alone. Wine is your lover; you take a bath with it, sit quietly and read a book in its presence, marathon The Tudors series with it. Because when it’s wine time, it gets intimate.
Vodka is always a possibility, a private dancer, a dancer for money, “I’ll do what you want me to do.” Much like Gene Parmesan, it’s a master of disguise, it’s especially adept at hiding in stomachs and the back of my parents freezer where they think I won’t look. Vodka is kind of like David Bowie; a chameleon who’s wardrobe is only limited by your imagination.
I’m definitely not drinking rum, because rum is for tourists. Oh sure, snap a couple pictures in your puffy-pirate-pullover then head back home to sobriety-town and leave to the real work to the professionals.
If I’m feeling particularly vengeful against my soul I’d drink whiskey. If there is a God, it’s probably brown, resting in a tumbler, embracing two apostle ice cubes. Two dudes wrestling at a party, that’s whiskey. Getting to your car the next day and finding the shirt you wore last night covered in vomit and mumbling, “what did I wear home? That’s whiskey. Getting your tie into a perfect Half Windsor the first try, that’s whiskey. The perfect amount of sustained eye contact with a potential beau that signifies, “game on.” That’s whiskey. It’s a cop on the edge, walking the thin blue line. Whiskey is asking your self one question, “do I feel lucky?” Well do ya, punk?