Why "You" Personally Shouldn't Drink.

By Eisenhower Hill

The beginning is an inevitable, easily recognized pattern.

Every time you drink freeze-dried vodka, you loose the ability to comprehend your native English. Sure, fluent Russian is not a problem. You can write it, read it, speak it, and even understand the intricacies of various dialects throughout the regions. How the hell does this happen? It's any one's guess…?

No! What really gets to you is waking up after the black out. Sure you are in another Russian embassy, various office supplies are affixed to every appendage, and Gorbachev, like usual, is sprawled out on the floor wearing his royal purple teddy with black velvet accents. How he raves on about the accents. And why is it always Dostoyevsky's "Crime and Punishment" wedged in between your butt crack and held in place by a belt of duct tape? Enjoyment? Doubtful. Protection? More than likely, you hope!

As always, denial breeds paranoia.

There are always at least three dead Thai hookers. "No!" You say, "You must never mention the hookers."
What, or who are you covering for? What conspiracy driven associations have you gotten yourself into again? This happens all the time. It's not just a little slip up. "Two maybe three times a year . . . tops," you tell yourself, and every time you plead, "Never again will I buy the bottom shelf freeze-dried vodka."

But who wants the 175-gram pouch of Grey Goose, when you can get the 350-gram package of Viaka for almost half the price? What a wise shopper you are.

After a few years of this it is clear that INTERPOL, the KGB (yes, they are still around) and any number of other various intelligence agencies are monitoring all of your conversations. You knew they would, but you are smarter than that. Hell, how many payphones are there in the US alone? They can't keep tabs on you all of the time. You know your apartment is bugged. When was the last time you even uttered a word in that little box? Cleverly, you moved your work place from the cube farm to the handicapped restroom. It's a larger space anyway. Just let them try to hide a bug in that pristine white tile prison. It's like a microchip clean room in there.

I digress; this is really all about your drinking problem.

It has been clear for years that it is only the freeze-dried vodka that makes you lose your cool. You are, for the most part, responsible. You work, pay rent, and for the love of all that is sacred, buy the three squares a day that keep you alive: Sam Adams, Corona, and Guinness. "Beer is not food" they told you, but it clearly is. If it wasn't then why don't you look like an Ethiopian marathon runner? How could you possibly be alive today with out eating any "food" for several years?

What is the rule? Three weeks with out food, three days with out water, three minutes with out air? We have new one for that, three seconds of freeze-dried vodka consumption. That is your down fall.

The true crime of ethics revealed.

Seriously now, this all comes down to what you finally resorted to last weekend. You knew it was wrong, you just couldn't help yourself. There is no excuse, there is no possibility of a pardon, you fucked up! Now repeat after me, and mean it this time!

"I swear I will never again consciously or sub-consciously, with or with out intent, sober (yeah right) or drunk, clothed or standing naked on a six foot pile of empty Tequila bottles screaming I love Barbara Bush's rack, order a Shirley Temple just to impress the two hot nuns at the end of the bar."

And no. They were not KGB dressed as penguins.

- www.KCDrinker.com - 2003 ©

Eisenhower 'Ike' Hill is a high altitude native of Colorado Springs, CO. After extensive blackouts, he now runs guns to fuel the Missouri Border Wars near Kansas City, MO. He is fully credited for the theory of, "Complete a sentence, and take a shot of whiskey." In his spare time, which is a lot, he enjoys dressing as an (Irish) Catholic priest and hearing the confessions of hot chicks.