Smile Politely

That Sunday Was Fuzzy

So, usually in this first part I say something about the weather, just because that’s often how many people begin conversations around these parts. This week, I won’t even mention weather since I’m going to need all the beginning to set up the actual column … you know, like one of them regular columnists. I’m so gonna rock the shit out of this long preamble.

So, I didn’t go out this past weekend … at least on Friday or Saturday. I had a sick wife and a residual hangover from the previous Wednesday. For some reason I’ve been getting drunk really easy lately and last Wednesday was one of those nights. I’m not sure what is going on. One possibility is that my body was somehow storing gallons of alcohol for several years and then suddenly decided to release all of this residual alcohol into my system every time I go to have a beer. This would explain why I’ve seemed so sober for all these years. Yeah, it’s probably not that, but it’s something.

Either way, that’s not why I stayed in all weekend, but it didn’t help. By the time Sunday rolled around, my nervous system was well aware that there was a missing ingredient in my recipe for a normal weekend. My body can be sort of a dick when it doesn’t get what it considers enough alcohol. Only a wonderful magician could find a way to make everyone happy and I was sort of that magician.
On Sunday, I was bored and our household needed groceries almost as badly as I needed some hooch. I got a grocery list from the wife, put on some cloths that weren’t sweatpants, and headed out for a day on the town. I told the wife I’d be home in seven hours. She laughed and said it’d probably be more like twelve. She was closer. I had a quick beer in the garage, partly to give me time to go over that long-assed shopping list she’d given me, but mostly because I wanted a beer in the garage.

I stopped short of having five or six beers and, instead, headed to the store, sort of like deciding to eat a head of broccoli instead of finishing off a Papa Del’s. Once I made it to the grocery, I quickly moved to the liquor aisle and grabbed a bottle of Jim Beam. I wasn’t going to drink it there, but I felt I needed the comfort of knowing it was in the cart. I went back to the vegetables after that, mostly out of guilt.

As I started to gather vegetables, I also began crossing things off the list I’d been given. It’s a good thing I grabbed that whiskey on my own, because she had, once again, forgotten to write it down. I sort of shut my mind off after that and did the job. My only thoughts were, “I’m so gonna get ripped after this,” and, “Jesus Fucking Christ, every single item costs $2 more than it did two weeks ago.” An hour or so later, my trunk was full of groceries and I was headed home … or was I?

Obviously, I wasn’t because that would be smart. I, instead, stopped by Brass Rail to say hey to my friend, let’s call him Trevor. I knew it wouldn’t be busy in the afternoon since the Pi Omega Omega, or POO, party was later that evening. Since I’ve been getting drunk really easy, I figured I should skip that shindig this year and, you know, go do my job on Monday. That crapshow didn’t start until 8:00, so I knew I could tank up with very little fanfare at 2:00 in the afternoon. Well, there was already plenty of pre-fanfare and it was about all I could handle, streamers, backdrops, and those new/legal poker machines that Foty just put in. It seemed sort of fun and it wasn’t even started yet.

I considered going home and taking a nap and then coming back. Something like this would have worked when I was 25, but not so much these days. Hell, even after three beers and two shots I knew I could never pull that sort of thing off. My only option was to get so drunk in the afternoon that I couldn’t go back out at 8. I also knew this plan would work … probably too well.

I still needed to get the goddamned groceries home. It was cold in the car and I didn’t get ice cream, so I assumed they’d be fine, but then again, the sick wife might want to eat sometime long before my dumbass ever made it back.

I quickly went home, threw thirty or so bags of groceries inside, and rang the doorbell. I was back in the car and halfway to Huber’s before the final chime from the bell had finished. Once I had a drink back in my hand and groceries long out of my mind, I began writing this column. I sort of got it finished before things got super creepy.

By the end of the column, it became clear I still didn’t really have a topic; yet, for some reason, that seemed perfectly fine by me. I made it to bed before 10, ignored the texts I received throughout the evening telling me how awesome the party was and how I should get my lazy ass down there, and then made it to work. It seemed like a really full day, even though I felt like I hadn’t done all that much.


I stumbled across this and didn’t think much more about it until I realized I was walking around singing it more than I really should. I guess it’s as catchy as it is funny.


For those of you who thought that Oscar Pistorius was some sort of superhero, he is — a terrible, girlfriend murdering superhero.

Okay, I saw this old picture the other day and just busted out laughing.

What the fuck is Michael Jackson doing? What a fucking dickhole. “Oh, such a polite young man. He’s listening attentively to the President with his hands crossed in the front. I bet he’s a fine fellow … wait, what sort of goddamned outfit is that? Does he think he’s some sort of Admiral? He seems to have quite a lot of piping on his jacket … and wait, are those epaulets? Jesus Christ, this guy really goes all out when he’s going to the White House. I mean, he’s weird, but he still wants to babysit my kid and I really need a sitter. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The “Roman Helmet” is very seldom done with kindness.

Buona Sera, senorina, kiss me goodnight.

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