| Author | Message | ||
     Captpete |
No, I’m not talking about a contest of getting a hangover. I haven’t had one in years, and hope I’m smart enough to have seen my last. (Sorry to have bothered you serious drinkers.) What I’m talking about is a friendly little writing contest. This board is full of good writers: Bomber, RT, Rocket, Brucelee, Court, Blake, & Jon are just a few of the ones that come to mind, and I’m sure the closet is full of others that don’t. Here’s what I propose: Describe a hangover in 500 words or less. That’s a short little piece, only one page. But you lose ten points for every word over or under 500, and get a 500-point bonus for doing it in exactly 500 words. Demerits for spelling errors, unless it’s a word that you make up. (You guys who are too lazy to use spellcheck drive me nuts!) Punctuation rules do not apply. We’re talking creative writing here, but if your entry makes no sense because of poor punctuation, mucho demerits. Other than that, BadWeB rules apply. We’ll worry about the judging and rewards later. (Maybe the losers have to get a hangover to refresh their memory?) So… with great trepidation, I throw down the gauntlet with the following 500-pointer: (Edited because I forgot to mention it being exactly 500 words.) (Message edited by captpete on October 11, 2006) | ||
| Captpete |
The Hangover The gizmo inside the windup alarm clock trips and the clapper starts banging against the cheap tin bell hidden inside and like an auger, the obnoxious sound starts eating, drilling its way through the fragile shell that protects his consciousness. But the shell is not as fragile as it’s supposed to be this morning. Nearly a dozen hours of being steeped in alcohol, which is still dissipating from his system, has hardened it from fragile to formidable. The drill down process is slow and tedious. The shell weakens. A faint echo gets past it. Enough to merely nag at his conscious being. He doesn’t mind the nagging, but he can’t dismiss it. For like a mosquito buzzing around his head, he knows it will soon bite. The shell finally cracks and fire engines, bells clanging and smoke everywhere, replace the buzzing and they are getting closer and closer as the bells clang louder and louder. The smoke slowly begins to clear, and it becomes apparent that the fire engine is sitting on top of his nightstand. All he has to do is to swat the thing to stop the terrible invasion. But he must roll over to accomplish this, and midway through that complex maneuver all the moorings that fasten his brain to the interior of his cranium give way. He can actually feel it moving as his hand comes down to snuff the life from the mechanical intruder. At last, the noise stops, and the jiggling and sloshing of his brain cease as it seeks its level, and all that is left is pain. But this is good. Pain is proof of life. Synapses are firing wherever the pain department is located. Other departments are opening for business as well, and soon the lights come on in the cognition department. Without realizing he’s doing it, he polls his senses and based on their input he deduces that this day is going to be a tough one. Or does he induce this? Never mind. Same department. He makes a decision. Pain is paramount. First, he must treat the pain. Slowly, he swings his feet to the floor and pushes his torso to a sitting position at the edge of his bed. Meanwhile, the departments start to communicate among themselves. The simple need to stop the pain starts to evolve into a plan. The aspirins are in the medicine cabinet above the sink in the bathroom. That’s where the toothbrush is. Step two: brush his teeth. He leans forward and in a mere three seconds finds himself erect and pointed toward the bathroom. He takes one step and realizes this is all familiar. He is certain he has done this before. All he has to do is keep moving and he knows it will all work out. He takes another step, and then another. The momentum builds. He’s a survivor and knows he’s going to make it. But he does not necessarily rejoice. Not even the tiniest little bit. (Edited because forum did not pick up paragraph indentation formatting.) (Message edited by captpete on October 11, 2006) | ||
| Mikej |
Groggy, hazy, foggy, dew damp morning, wake up in a garage with a dead beer in hand and feeling like there’s a dead mouse in your mouth. Crawl off the floor and pull the torx driver off your cheek where it was stuck with Permatex spilled on the floor the night before right where your head finally came to rest on the concrete garage floor. Don’t know what’s worse, bike problems, or waking up hungover still in the garage. Only thing the damn milk crate was good for was carrying beer from the truckbed to the beer fridge. Stumble out of the garage to the house and the door is locked tight, and the dog is barking at you like you’re a stranger. And somebody painted the house a different color. It ain’t your house, you didn’t make it home, you’re at some friend’s house, not sure who, nor where. Pull out your cell phone, it’s broken from sleeping on a pipe wrench, the antennae’s broke off because you needed a probe to poke for broken bits in the primary oil, this somehow recalled from the wasted night before. Head throbbing as you wander back towards the garage only to find the wind shut the door, and it’s locked, and you don’t have a key. Step on a pile of dog crap as you walk around the corner to the alley, slip, fall, hit your head on the garage as you land on the dog crap you just stepped in. Now you smell like you feel, and look about the same. Perfect. More pain still not comparable to what’s happening inside your head. Gotta pee, gotta crap, getting the craps from the night before, manage to find your truck in the alley, hood up, battery gone, doors locked, and it starts to rain. At least it will wash the dog crap off your pants ‘cause your keys to the truck are inside the garage inside the beer fridge ‘cause you happened to have a can opener on the key ring and you somehow recall everyone, who ever they were, all enjoyed opening the beer cans with your can opener instead of using the pull tabs. Perfect. Gotta pee and crap, and find some aspirin or more beer to settle the head throb. Wander to the garage side, lean back, slide halfway down the wall for a makeshift air toilet, drop your drawers, wallet falls out into another pile of dog crap, damn dog, and you look over to find someone’s wife looking at you from inside the house. And you don’t care, can’t care, hungover and don’t matter. The lady looks familiar, like your mom, and the house like your parent's, and the garage like your dad’s, and you remember it was his knucklehead you were working on the night before. Dad walks out as you pull up your pants, he hands you an aspirin and a cold beer as he goes unlock the garage. He calls you knucklehead. Perfect. | ||
| Road_thing |
Oooh, man, those are good! Gonna have to study on this for a while...maybe put myself in character in order to compose a credible essay on this oh so familiar topic. I'm not sure I can play on the same field as Mike and the Cap'n, though... rt | ||
| Captpete |
Who-boy, the competition is going to be stiff. Another (hilarious) 500-pointer stepping up and I'm in trouble already. And I forgot to mention, ten demerits for using 'fog' or any variation of that word. Tough patooty. Too late now. C'mon, Thang. You can do it. Take a little sip, and start writing.  | ||
| Mikej |
Dang, foiled by a technicality.  | ||
| Captpete |
No, I mean too late for the fog rule. You hangover’s wonderful. I’m still laughing about the image of the screw driver Permatexed to your cheek. | ||
| Road_thing |
Hey, hold it down, willya? I'm trying to write, here... rt Would you bring me another beer, please, honey? | ||
| Rocketman |
I can tell the bloody world about hangovers. I get at least one a week. It would be funny, even bloody hilarious if any of them were drink induced. Truth is, booze accounts for about one hangover every couple of months if I'm lucky. Why lucky, it's a bloody hangover. Well at least when you've downed a few pints of ale and not that pissy stuff they call lager, I'm talking Worthington's finest cream flow bitter, then slung down a half dozen or so large John Daniels, you expect to have a taxi called for you. You expect to eat as much crap as you can muster up in the drunken state your in. That's once you've at least negotiated the assault course that starts the moment you fall out of the taxi and bulldoze your way down the garden path, struggle to open the front door and eventually arrive in the kitchen only to find the leftovers from yesterdays evening meal that the cat's already tried and given up on. You expect to have a hard time climbing the wooden hills with your pants around your ankles. You expect to wake up cursing the daylight that's shining through the crack in the curtain that just happens to be in the wrong place as to shine the working days brightest in your mince pies. Then you realise your head is pounding so bloody hard you swear you'll never touch another drop, already wishing you hadn't, and from this moment forward your nightmare for the next several hours is only just beginning. Wake up. Kick the cat. Grumble at everything and everyone including yourself. And where the hell did I put the paracetamol. This is a bloody hangover and no matter what, you're determined in the end to convince yourself the sixty odd quid you blew last night was well worth it. All hangovers are monumental once they've passed. They're all worth bragging about in the end, once they've passed. But only if they're paid for. The higher the price, the bigger the hangover. Pretty simple really. So if they're paid for you're bloody lucky because somewhere down the line you supped a bloody skinful. Well I'm not that bloody lucky, but things are looking up. I'm starting to measure my hangovers by what's left in my wallet, but that's not been the case for the last two odd years. Oh no. My hangovers have been free. They've come at the expense of my eyes popped out of my head. So much so that ones eyes can't close fully. So much so that ones tear ducts are exposed therefore they leak constantly through the night when you're asleep. The pillow is soaked so much you think you've wet the bed, which you have done, but not with your bladder but your bloody bulging eyes. That's what you call a bloody hangover. Your body loses that much fluid whilst you're sleeping you're always gonna wake up with a bloody hangover. Dehydration is the killer of all good days, never mind the double vision. Kind of ironic really, thyroid eye disease has all the symptoms of 10 pints and several tumblers of Kentucky's finest. That's a bloody hangover and that's why you're lucky if you've paid for yours. You fu-king well deserved it  Rocket | ||
| Road_thing |
Thump-thump Hmmmph? Thump-thump Wuzzat noise? Oh, man, my head hurts…I may never drink tequila again. Thump-thump Go away! I’m sleepin’, here! I think I’ve got sawdust in my mouth. Thump-thump Will you shut the f*** up and leave me alone?? Let me die in peace!! Thump-thump Alright, if I hear that damn thumping noise one more time I’m comin’ down there, and I’m gonna kick somebody’s ass! Thump-thump Slowly get up off the couch. Brief blackout, a little weave, whoa, I’m goin’ down!! No, wait, I’m still up. I’ll hang that window blind back up tomorrow. I never liked that lamp anyway. Thump-thump Crap, what’s this stuff on the floor? It’s kinda crunchy-like. Good thing I still had my boots on when I passed out. Ouch!! Well, one boot on, anyway…what the hell is that noise?? It’s really pissin’ me off… Thump-thump Guess that’s glass on the floor. Yup, there’s half a Patron bottle, other half’s in my foot. Damn foot’s bleeding now. Hurts like a bitch. Head hurts like a bitch, too. Lookit all those lime slices stuck on the wall, how’d they get there? Thump-thump Shut UP, willya?? I think my eyeballs are bleeding… Thump-thump Okay, I’m goin’ downstairs to the front door, and whoever’s thumpin’ on it is in for a really bad time. Gotta be careful on these stairs, I’m still a little wobbly. What time is it anyway? Whoops, better sit down for a sec…I don’t feel so good…YUURRKK-YUUUURRRRKKKK…wow, I don’t remember eating that…looks like an olive and anchovy burrito… don’t step in that, I’ll clean it up later. Thump-thump I feel a little better now, that took some pressure off. Wish I hadn’t peed my pants, but I’ll shower and change after I deal with this ••••••• pounding on the door. Thump-thump I’m coming, godammit, this better be important! Thump-thump These stairs are kinda tricky with one boot and one bloody sock, gotta be caref…OONNOO…. Thump-thump OK, lie still for a second, don’t move…wiggle fingers, seems OK, wiggle toes, they’re OK too, except for the bleeding, arms and legs work, what’s in my pocket? Bruised my ass when I hit that last step…damn, it’s a salt shaker…good thing I only fell down the last three steps, that coulda been real bad… Thump-thump Uh-oh, foot’s bleeding on the rug, hope that’ll come out with some club soda. Just a couple more steps to the door. Funny, the pounding hasn’t gotten any louder. What’s going on here? Thump-thump OK, grab the banister, pull yourself up, you’re almost there. Strange how that pounding on the door, never stops, never sounds louder or softer, just that steady double-knock, like a bad rod bearing. Reminds me of something, seems like I’ve heard it before…I’ll figure it out after I kill this guy… Thump-thump Throw the door open, ready to rip somebody a new one. There’s nobody there. Just the sound of the bugs buzzing around the porch light and the pounding of your own heartbeat in your head. Thump-thump | ||
| Captpete |
Another 500-pointer! Thump-thump Look on the bright side, Rocket... You don't have to keep gettin' up in the middle of the night to pee! | ||
| Ezblast |
I'll have to study up on the topic at the Firestone Brewery this saturday - maybe even pics - lol GT - JBOTDS! EZ  | ||
| Captpete |
No wonder they had that bad batch of tires a few years ago! | ||
| Blake |
I've been inebriated to the point of seeing double in Acapulco, had the bed spins once or twice in Texas, got sick on rum and coke in Rio, been saki sauced in Kawasaki, tossed pints to peril in Picadilly, but honest on my honor, I've never suffered a hangover, anywhere. I hear they suck. Is that 500 words yet? | ||
| Road_thing |
Blake: Return to the Ranchito.  "Hangovers Sold and Serviced Here" rt | ||
| Captpete |
honest on my honor, I've never suffered a hangover Spoken like a true alcoholic. | ||
| Blake |
RT, you sure are getting some good mileage out of that photo.  Discerning readers will not that Blake is curiously studying the bottle, not drinking from it.  Hootowl's amazing oatmeal stout was my favorite beverage that evening. Gee, Capt. I'll have to get back to you on that after I pour myself another drink. <hic>  | ||
| Spiderman |
I thought you were a engineer not a cop  | ||
| Blake |
Maybe I'm in training to be an airline pilot. | ||
| Spiderman |
Naw, You look a like a skinny Al Borland...  | ||
| Captpete |
Discerning readers will not that Blake is curiously studying the bottle, not drinking from it. Hmmmm. Curious double negative slipped in there. More proof that Blake never lies? Hmmm? | ||
| Rocketman |
I have a mild hangover! Rocket 5 not 500 words is all I can manage today | ||
| Blake |
Tony, I thought I looked more like Dr. Phil in that photo. LOL! "Skinny", hah! Good one! Don't drink and drive, don't drink and ride, and don't drink and use power tools. Capt, D'OH! Sheesh, I gotta be more careful. Rocket, Hydration is key. | ||
| Spiderman |
Dr Phil? Naw, I like ya too much for all that | ||
| Bomber |
hmmmm - hope the time hasn't run out on this one -- I'll have to dig into the dusty archives, as I've not really had a hangover since a long far (thank goodness), and it was co-mingled with teh after affects of other gigglicious activities . . . . . . it involved iguanas | ||
| Road_thing |
Iguanas?? Now that oughta be a good story... rt | ||
| Bomber |
munchin on my notochord | ||
| Road_thing |
I thought you were starting on the hangover story with that post about the 10-foot pot plants... rt | ||
| Bomber |
nope -- no pot ever gave any mother's son a hangover . . . . . . . here's the story Hangover It was my 25th birthday. I’d been back in the states for about 11 months, and was surprised to see 25. The first half of my adventures outside the US had convinced me that the second half would preclude my returning in anything resembling an upright state. But, return, I had, a lil worse for wear, but fully functional, and anatomically correct. I had fallen in with a bad crowd – I’d spent months finding them all, and was enjoying their company to the best of my ability. Since my birthday falls toward the tail end of the most featureless month, a party broke out. I had arrived at a college (to remain nameless) that had a well-earned reputation as a party school – the local constabulary had gone so far as to close the streets for the Hollowe’en party. Nuf said. To bankroll my higher educational endevours, I had invested heavily in acid futures. I hit town with 300 cash dollars American, and 300 hits of microdot. I was properly equipped for my immersion into civilian life. One of the more memorable portions of the party was my good friend Mad Dog (18 months older than I) coming up behind me, and intoning in a stentorian voice, “don’t worry, Bomber – as long as I’m around, you got 18 more good months left.” Now, mind you, given the state of consciousness in which I found myself, worrying was beyond my capabilities. I had no idea that I would ever need to worry, and wasn’t sure that I was capable. Never mind that Mad Dog vanished the following week, and stayed vanished for 17 months. There was a popularly supported movement to remember our late, lamented sister Janis Joplin, so a great deal of Southern Comfort had been laid in – this explains the complete and utter lack of comfort to be had the next morning, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’d been going through my investment portfolio fairly briskly, offering samples to prospective investors (specially the cute ones), and decided to use the remaining goods to help the party reach Homeric proportions . . . . To defray the lack of income my portfolio had brought, I took a job driving taxi – 12 hours a day, four days a week (as you can see, my devotion to college was variable, at best). I must not have been paying attention to the new-employee orientation briefing (there’s yer cab, here’s yer keys, get outa here, and, oh, don’t foget to shve tomorrow, we run a class joint), as, after a week of driving round and about, biking up nicely shaped young lady hitch hikers, and offering rides to down on their luck long-hairs, I was shocked to find I had $17.45 in my pay packet. Purely commission pay scheme had foiled my plans to spend the semester getting lucky as a result of offering rides. Rats, to quote Charlie Brown. At any rate, the party had proceeded to the point where Debber, a woman wise beyond her years, had decided to deprive all and sundry of their car/truck/motorcycle keys to avoid injury to the surrounding countryside and the structures therein. Her sneaky, underhanded tactic included utterances like, “give me your keys,” and, “give me your damn keys,” and “give me your keys before I knee you in the groin.” Knowing that I am a clever guy, and above being fooled by such sophomoric ruses, she snuck up on me, plunged her hand into my pocket, grabbed my keys, saying “lemme see your damn keys” and wandered off. I thought, that as the birthday boy, I would be exempt from such shenanigans. I was wrong. So, there I was – a belly fulla Southern Comfort, a head fulla microdot, and an entirely illegal smile on my puss, crawling around the floor, looking for a hit that Mad Dog had dropped into the green shag carpet upon receiving the threat to his groin. Never did find it (sigh). When, all of a suddenly, I felt the need to ride my bike. A carefully orchestrated search of my pockets turned up nary a key. A similarly orchestrated search of my short term memory turned up a mental image of Debber boosting them. (sigh, again). I wandered outside, hoping that someone had left theirs in the ignition switch of dman near anything – really didn’t matter. I was in need of explosions and rotary motions, and didn’t particularly care about the machine at that point. Sadly, Debber had cleaned out all the internal combustion ignition switch keys. (sigh, yet again). An idea beckoned – I remembered that Debber was not in much better shape than I was, in terms of mental acuity. I also remembered that I had seen her, at other gatherings, place her stash of purloined keys in the freezer. So I went back inside, fully intending to make a beeline for the kitchen. This is where beer is kept, and is generally fully occupied with women, which I remembered to be better smelling than the men, nicer to look at, too. But I got lost. I would explain this, but no matter how cogent and lucid the writing, many would not comprehend how a guy could get lost between his own front door and his kitchen. There are one or two who need no explanation, and will simply leave it to the imagination of the rest to figure out how a guy that ran point for 25 months without ever loosing an LZ, hot OR cold, might not be able to navigate the 15 feet between porch and kitchen. With the beer in it. And the women. I found myself in the bathroom, that most dangerous of locales for the grinning acid head. It’s not the razors that present the hazard – I didn’t own one, and the blonde with whom I share the abode had hidden hers . . . it’s not the medications that presented any danger, as the good stuff had already been ingested. It was the mirror. Not because it presented a cutting danger if broken. It’s the movement. Young boys are genetically predisposed to chase balls and the like because it’s their job to hunt. Male eyeballs sense movement, cannily sensing a potential food source, a potential mating opportunity, or threat, and allowing the food/mating source/threat to be chased down and captured. I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye when entering the bathroom, turned to face the threat square on, and noticed it was me. Bad move. I was ugly. I mean, bind my feet together and leave me out on a hillside at birth ugly. The pores of my nose were large enough to harbor small communities of dwarves. My eyes were bulging, red-rimmed, orbs that looked suitable for a game of marbles. My nostrils were deep and cavelike, hiding who know what sort of Lovecraftian horrors, perhaps Cthulu himself. Right at this point, one of the kitchen nymphs walked in, dropped trou, and sat on the thrown (whose seat had thoughtfully been returned to it’s fully down postion by a previsou user). These were different time, truly. I asked the kitchen nymph if I looked OK – she said I looked like I always did. This was not comfort – great, I look like I have an eater of the dead hiding in my nose. I remember that I needed to drive something, excused myself, and went out in search of the kitchen. And I walked on down the hall. I found the kitchen which WAS populated with kitchen nymphs, and DID contain beer – the freezer, who ever, did NOT have any keys in it. (sigh). | ||
| Henrik |
Probably a tad over the word count there Bomber, but a fantastic story none the less  Actually - all your hangover "essays" are great. It's been awhile, but your writing sure brings back the "happy" memories Henrik |
