Drunk In The Time Of Cholera

The following is a dazzling piece of diction by my esteemed editor. He has finally deciding to grace my audience with a refined and crisp eloquence that this blog has desperately been missing. Kudos to him…and I was drunk and passed out while he wrote this piece.

Most people consider alcohol to be a means to an end. You get yourself drunk so that you won’t be too embarrassed to walk straight up to that girl from your French Lit class and tell her you can’t stop staring at her in between those ridiculous feminist readings. You drink so that you can go out and feel like part of the crowd in overpriced, underlighted subterranean bars on the lower east side. You drink so that you won’t have to think about how desperately awful you feel about your current state of affairs. You drink as a means to an end.


I drink as an end to a means. Drinking is the end game. I don’t drink for anything other than the obvious conclusion of relenteless alcoholic intake, intoxication. People who don’t drink might not know this, but being drunk is a magical state. The feeling of walking intoxication is akin to existing in two planes of reality at the same time—one where you are the master of the universe, suave and witty, and another where you are a stumbling and incoherent mess. The beauty of it is while you exist in both, you only see yourself in one; the cooler one. It’s almost impossible for someone who is truly drunk, 3 sheets to the wind, to know how obnoxious they are capable of behaving. It’s a problem that I’ve not yet come to terms with, as I simply refuse to censor myself when in the company of guests. This manifests itself most often when meeting people for the first time, as I often have the bad habit of asking people their favorite sexual position (I’m partial to reverse cowgirl myself, not least because it has a western element to it.)

More often than not, people frown on frequent, daily drunkenness as a sign of moral failing. I find this to be highly hypocritical, especially since some of our greatest statesmen (and they’re all men) to be functional alcoholics—Ben Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, George W. Bush—more people should resign themselves to the fact that getting drunk in the middle of the day/week/hour is a sign of commitment, and not any kind of desire to run away from your feelings or emotions. In fact, if W was still drinking, he probably wouldn’t have invaded Iraq, or at least could have been talked out of it over a couple of whiskey sours. I think if W was wasted, I could have screamed “Hey dude, maintain!” a couple of times and he would have snapped out of it.