Maybe just one more drink…

We’ve all had one of those nights that started innocuously enough, just intending to have a few measly cocktails and chatter about topics of little consequence like sports or current travel. A Coors Light here, a jigger of Jager there and the path to obscured memories becomes clearer. 
Yet we also know that these nocturnal excursions also take a U-turn for the absurd when we accept “just one more drink” into the night’s liquid lexicon. 
Let’s study the following clues to reveal just how drunk you “really” were, Sherlock.
— You were arguing with a stranger for an hour and a half about how the designated hitter is necessary for the survival of Major League Baseball. 
— You woke up with a phone number illegibly scrawled on each hand … and they are both your own. 
— The car in the driveway is not your own. More pertinent information: the bed and clothes you’re in also do not belong to you. And yet your shoes are your own.
— You have new tattoos — multiple, misspelled and some scripted in a language recognized as possibly not earthbound. 
— You’re wearing a wedding band made primarily of braided animal hair. Discuss. 
— You have a passport stamp on your forehead and impossibly-tan buttocks. From Thailand. Three weeks ago. 
— You have 127 text messages on your cell phone in a four-hour time period. All sent. 
— You were drinking enough Patron to realize that it really is that bad … and you developed a sudden interest in cliche auto-tuned hip hop songs. 
— You were drinking enough Jack Daniel’s to realize that it really is that good … and found yourself with a sudden interest in family reunions. 
— You were arguing with your “new” best friend that the designated hitter will eventually ruin Major League Baseball forever.     
— You saw the idiom, “Dance like no one’s watching” vibrantly come to life on YouTube and played the role, fumble funking your way around a dance floor. 
— You received 127 text messages back, all with the short reply: “Take a cab.”
— You find scribbled notes on “it all being Hurley’s Twinkie-induced dreams … ”
— You woke up with a nicotine patch on your eye, a Marlboro bandana on your head, and a “I Was Puffy the Pirate Smoker for Halloween” T-shirt on. It’s March. 
So when you find yourself at the drink/drank/drunk stage of the night, use a dash of caution and a splash of common sense or nightmares and nicotine fits are in your immediate future. 
A shower and a good attorney on retainer can’t hurt either.


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