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I Become An Old Man When I Drink

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Some dance all night until they’re keeled over a toilet bowl. Others walk home with bloody knuckles because they tried to punch a hole through a brick wall. I, on the other hand, am a rare breed that experiences a level of intoxication with behaviors that can only be described as grandpa-like. That’s right. After countless rounds, I conduct myself like an eighty-year-old man. Allow me to break it down for you.

I Need A Cane To Walk

I’m a classic stumbler. God knows how this happens. When I arrive at a party, I’m a fully functional human being. Hell, I walk in tapping my head and rubbing my stomach to prove just that. But following more than a few trips to the fridge and liquor cabinet, I look like a giraffe with socks trying to walk on a newly stained hardwood floor. Somebody better throw a walker under me before I slip in the bathroom and crack my skull. Or you could just strap a Life Alert® around my neck. Whichever works.

I’m Very Protective Of My Property

You need something to eat? Sure, help yourself. Your phone is at 8 percent? There’s a charger next to the desk. You need to borrow my laptop to download Scandinavian Viking fetish porn? Go for it, dude. Sober me is a carefree communal hippie and I wish it would stay like that. As soon as I become one of those glassy-eyed slumps on the couch, the grumpy old man is revealed. I dare to you touch the fifth of Jack I’ve been cradling. My response will be identical to your grandfather meeting cousin Jimmy’s “partner.”

“You Call This Music?”

Whether it’s the Lils or the A$APs, it all sounds the same to me. The left hemisphere of my geezer mind is wondering why one particular idiot keeps Ms in his bank account. Meanwhile the right hemisphere wants to send in the National Guard to control this Gucci Gang.

As soon as someone changes the tune to “Sweet Caroline” or “Don’t Stop Believing” I’m trying to balance myself on a table using the keg nozzle as a microphone. A parade of entertained yet concerned partiers gather around to watch the spectacle. While I’m pointing in the crowd and yelling, “Touching me. Touching youuuu…”

I Never Saw A Buffett I Didn’t Like

All you can eat for $10? Done deal. I don’t care if the half cooked shredded chicken has salmonella. It’s delicious.

The Post Game

When I get home, I throw on some slippers, watch a few episodes of Frasier, and then drift off into a sex dream with Betty White.

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