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Thank you all for coming on this Monday, January 16, 2017. As usual, this weekend was one for the books. Thankfully, we have a day of remembrance for the good Dr. King and can legally vomit in any water fountain we so choose. Today, I’d like to address the issues of existence, bed pee, and getting punched in the face.
My first existential crisis occurred at the tender age of five. As I watched the comical, weaponless antics of a group of ninja turtles (YOU HAVE FUCKING SWORDS ON YOUR BACK LEONARDO QUIT KICKING HIM AND CUT OPEN HIS FUCKING THROAT), my brother made a simple statement.
“What if Leo is only purple because I think he’s purple?”
My brother’s not very good with colors. Or shapes. Or controlling his heroin addiction. Still, it made me think. What if he was on to something? What if what we see isn’t what’s real? What if, at five years old, I was and always would be an insignificant blip on the radar of the universe? Man, we did a lot of pills back then. Thanks, naval medicine.
That brings me to this morning. I awoke, as is normal, to a bed soaked in pee. As I scrambled to the bathroom to grab a fresh towel for sleeping/denial purposes, I made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. The sight that graced me was shocking.
The last thing you want to do after a night of hard drinking is look yourself in the eye. It puts a human face on the deplorable manchild who just spent an evening hitting on ugly girls and sending 3 a.m. emails from an anonymous address to their MILF of a manager asking her to send nudes. It makes you come to terms with the fact that you’re scum. Before I could look away from my red-eyed, pissed off doppelgänger, it struck me that something was different. Maybe it was the stubble, or perhaps the fact that my face is covered in open wounds.
Despite a braggadocios nature and macho attitude, I have never been punched in the face outside of a boxing ring. Even then, I was at least semi-cognizant enough to know that I would be getting punched in the face at some point. Last night was different. It’s a well-documented fact that your boy doesn’t black out. Unfortunately, time ruins all things and the bottle of champagne I pre-gamed with was my Charon down the River Styx. The last things I recall are busting moves on the dance floor, listening to my drunk Marine buddy talk about how much he loves his kid, and walking out on my tab to grab a burrito. Between those events, I was either jaw-jacked or took a tumble. Both are equally likely. I am scum.
The crisis that such a blackout mystery can cause is enough to break a lesser man. Usually, sober me has no goddamn business knowing what’s up with drunk me. Visible facial injuries are different. People are going to want to know what happened. I want to know what happened. Did I finally grab that new bartender’s titty and face the wrath of the large, bearded security guard? Or did I symbolically fall from glory while attempting to Milly Rock? Either way, I have a damaged face and nobody to blame the pee on.
I hope, for society’s sake, that it was a punch. The last thing we need is another schmuck getting his head bashed on the ground. Besides, everyone needs a good punch to the face occasionally. Keeps you humble. More importantly, I need someone to blame that urine on and chicks dig scars. I think it’s called Florence Henderson Syndrome. Or being a slut.
Thank you again for joining me. I hope that we can approach this week with the same gung-ho attitude our forefathers would. God Bless America, and God Bless you..