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A long time ago, in a country that had not yet assumed its rightful place as the reigning hegemon in a single world power system, there existed two very evil organizations: the Anti-Saloon League and the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. What made these two groups so incredibly evil is that they despised and shunned one of the greatest inventions humanity has ever created: alcohol. Through championing a dark form of bullshit called morals, these two lecherous associations convinced the government of said country to pass the Volstead Act, which prohibited the sale or production of alcohol on a national scale. For the thirteen long and torturous years that followed the passing of this legislation, the good, thirsty inhabitants of the poor hoodwinked country lost their collective minds.
You see, the Anti-Saloon League and the Women’s Christian Temperance Union made the argument that alcohol, when consumed in large amounts, lowered the drinker’s inhibitions, therefore making him or her more likely to take an unattractive member of the opposite sex home or even demand Taco Bell service past operating hours. These two depraved conglomerates justified their campaign against alcohol by stating that, when drunk, people were no longer of a rational state of mind, that people were no longer themselves. For thirteen years, the drunken personalities all those people had buried inside them, the gifts given to them as a show of welcome to this Earth, were illegal.
I’m sure you are absolutely shocked to hear that the mystery country is, in fact, the United States of America. Luckily, if you fast-forward about 90 years, you come to the present day, where almost all forms, brands, and variations of alcohol are clearly legal. But can you imagine the suffering of our ancestors? Not able to call upon their inner drunken superhero for over a decade. There was no voice in the back of their mind, growing louder with each sip, demanding they take home the tree stump at the end of the bar because it’s 2 O’clock and they struck out everywhere else. No commanding influence, calling for them to leave Krispy Kreme without paying for their donuts because the girl left to go get her manager to open the register. For 13 years, they played life by the rules. What a travesty.
We have no such restrictions. Our intoxicated alter egos are free to entertain whatever their heart desires. There are many signs that are indicative of the transformation from a sober civilian to their inebriated counterpart: some drunken doppelgängers are defined by the declaration of a name change, and others add a letter (or number) to their initials. For a certain few, a night of drinking brings out an entirely different personality that just happens to be housed in the same skin. No matter what you become after slamming 18 shots, it is a magnificent sight to behold, and it must not be taken for granted.
A fully unleashed hammered second self-possesses powers sober individuals can only dream about. There is a reason alcohol is referred to as liquid courage — just leave it up to your annihilated alter ego to use that bravery constructively. Talk to that dime piece that looks bored sitting at the bar? No fucking problem, she definitely wants to hear about how you called the Holly Holm upset but didn’t put any money on it. Want to scale the stadium and pass out in the alumni section? Amateur shit. Just get a running start. Find out the girl you just met on the beach on spring break is a foreign exchange student? Well isn’t that fortuitous, considering you are a Columbia University film student conducting a sociological experiment where you shoot girls modeling nude and you’re funded entirely by NASCAR’s own Matt Kenseth because you’re distantly related to him. Camera? Oh, up in your room so it wouldn’t get wet.
Drunkenly activated alter egos are a part of what makes drinking great. Watching the quiet and reserved brother of the bunch turn into a wall punching, body shot taking, profanity spewing machine is the pinnacle example of how humans + alcohol is an incredibly magical recipe. So this is for the smashed Superman inside all of us, waiting for dumbass Clark Kent to burn through that first drink. I salute you, you glorious bastard, and for the love of God, refill the damn Brita before you pass out..