The Mysterious Case Of The Face And The Beer Bottle
Two years ago today, I found myself regaining consciousness in a driveway in the middle of the afternoon, my face atop a shattered beer bottle. I recall being concerned that I may very well have wasted the entire beverage. Anchor Steam is mighty tasty, after all. Anyway, my shirt was soaked with blood, my chin was gashed to the bone, my lower lip was more than unsightly, my nose was broken, most of the knuckles on my left hand were quite fucked, and the sun was shining brightly from a painfully blue sky. I rolled several feet over, into the shade, and began to pick at one of two dozen or so glass fragments embedded in my face. There was a nice breeze just then, and I was becoming philosophical. Why am I here? What is all of this? Why the fuck do I have shards of glass in my cheeks? I felt like a modern day Sherlock Holmes, and after a few minutes of playing detective in the nether regions of my reptilian brain, I began to paint a mental picture of the preceding 48 hours. I remembered shooting Russian vodka with Russians, chugging hard cider with a Chinaman, pounding Jagerbombs with the mailman, bitch slapping a bipolar stripper after she ungraciously spat in my eyes, ingesting untold amounts of exotic substances in alarmingly high dosages, choking out an Irish rugby player, punching and kicking and elbowing a handsome oak tree, and pushing over a pesky STOP sign. Ah, yes. The tip of the ice berg. A pattern was emerging. A very distinct pattern. I retraced my steps (all two of them) to the rock path snaking away from the driveway, where my eyes met with a stone. A dislodged stone. The culprit. There was a flash of a hint of a memory of a moment when my foot met the culprit, throwing off my cat-like balance before that bastard, gravity, yanked me to the concrete, face-first, on top of my poor, delicious, ice cold bottle of beer. Now I was grumpy. I wanted a double chocolate protein shake. And, just possibly, a shot of tequila. Which became twelve shots of tequila. Which blacked me out. Luckily, the aforementioned Chinaman showed back up as I was tromping around the front lawn, fighting invisible demons, and snapped the remarkably dignified picture you see above. Below you see me, post-tequila blackout, looking a smidgen rough. But I’m better now. Thanks for asking.