What bothers me about last night is that, after drinking 4/6 of a six pack of Rolling Rock (that's not a gay beer, right? Whatever I like it, don't judge me) I realized something horrible, I've lost my tolerance, almost completely. Now I wasn't shitfaced, but I was abnormally buzzed off of four beers, FOUR BEERS! Do I have anything to be proud of anymore? I only weigh about 170 lbs, so if I don't have my alcohol tolerance built up you might as well just be slipping me roofies.
I suspected that my tolerance was slipping after a trip back to my old college town a few weeks ago. I was out on a Friday night with some friends and of course we were drinking. What sucks about losing your tolerance is that you don't realize it until it's too late. You don't have one beer and then go "Oh my I feel fuzzy, that's odd." What happens is you have nine beers and go "Why the fuck did I just take a shit in this alley?!?!" You lose your tolerance but not your drinking habits. My drinking habits? I don't pound drinks, but I finish them quickly, really quickly. I'm pretty ADD so I always have to be doing something with my hands. When I'm out it's drinking, I have a habit constantly sipping my drink. It doesn't sound like it but if I'm not having an interesting conversation or something the drink in my hand will be gone in about four minutes, and then I'll get another one.
So, there I am, taking shots and drinking beers like I usually do, not going crazy or anything, just having a normal night, and all the sudden I'm hit by a ton bricks. "Oh shit! Why am I so drunk? What time is it?" There are few worse feelings than being drunker than you want to be. I looked down at my phone, it's 10:30, FUCK. I can either keep drinking like I am and become that shitfaced guy at the bar or try and pace myself, which is an annoying and difficult task. The latter is my only real choice though, I hate being sloppy at a bar. To me, only the people playing Buck Hunter are lamer than the guy who's plastered by 11.
Quick Side Note: I love Buck Hunter, that game is the shit. Especially Buck Hunter: Safari, in one of the bonus levels you get to shoot chimpanzees, CHIMPANZEES! It's awesome! I don't think there could be a more entertaining hunting trip than chimps. In some sick way I'd feel like the Predator. If humans are the most dangerous game then what are chimps? The most adorable game? Anyway whenever I see people playing Buck Hunter at a crowded bar I definitely laugh at them, but that game is the shit. It might be the only time I simultaneously pity and envy someone.
Let's fast forward to the present. I'm standing in the liquor section of the grocery store looking over all the beer. If I'm not going to get drunk (which I wasn't planning on) I like to get a good six pack of beer. Looking around I want something I can sip on slowly and get at best a buzz. I decide on Rolling Rock, knowing that my tolerance is already dangerously low a beer like Sam Adams or something might pack a little bit too much of a punch. I grab the Rolling Rock and head to the check out aisle.
This doesn't have anything to do with the rest of the night but standing in line at a grocery store at 11 PM in the city is hell. There was only one aisle open and the line was huge. The people at the front of the line were a Bosnian couple who spoke almost no English and were trying to use about eight coupons they couldn't explain to the exceptionally retarded cashier. I had trouble trying to decide who's fault it was for holding up the line, but I eventually settled on the cashier. I assume that even though the Bosnians could barely speak English, they were at least still somewhat intelligent. I had no true way to gauge how smart they were, so I gave them the benefit of the doubt (by benefit of the doubt I mean that I assumed they were smarter than the nighttime cashier at the grocery store simply because they weren't the nighttime cashier at the grocery store).
This cashier was a train wreck. Sometimes, just by looking at someone, you can tell they're retarded, those times are awesome. First, and this is going to sound gay of me but, the woman had fake zebra print nails. You are not all there mentally if you truly think zebra print makes you look good. It's kind of ironic that in the wild zebra print is camouflage, but in the human world it highlights you...for being stupid. The zebra print nails were really just a footnote to her overall mental shortcomings. You could tell just by looking into her eyes. Her eyes looked like normal people look when they're blackout drunk, there was nothing there. No soul behind the eyes, just unwitting indifference. The kind of blank look that would lead you to believe that if a UFO landed in the parking lot and some kind of weird elephant-human hybrid walked out (like the Alabama mascot) she'd think they were ugly foreigners. Or to quote Werner Herzog in "Grizzly Man":
"And what haunts me, is that in all the faces of all the bears that Treadwell ever filmed, I discover no kinship, no understanding, no mercy. I see only the overwhelming indifference of nature. To me, there is no such thing as a secret world of the bears. And this blank stare speaks only of a half-bored interest in food."
Basically that's what this woman's eyes looked like.
The rest of the night played out pretty simply. I get through about four Rolling Rocks and have to tell myself to slow down. Rolling Rock might be the lightest full beer on the planet, and I'm floating. It was disgraceful, I felt pathetic. Luckily, in a random act of coolness, my mom bought some beer when she went grocery shopping, I'm gonna have to drink as much of that is possible, tonight, I mean the Super Bowl is tomorrow, I can't arrive unprepared. Here's hoping that O'Doul's Light in the basement does the trick.
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