The longest hang-over known to man

I’d like to say I’m sorry for not writing sooner, I drank like an Egyptian gypsy on Saturday, and have been hung-over ever since. In fact, I think I might still be hung-over. I have no recollection of my journey home Saturday, and frankly, I consider myself lucky to be alive. The only thing I remember is somehow ending up on MLK, after midnight. That’s like wondering into an al-Qaeda training camp with an American flag bandana on. The worst part about it was I didn’t care at all. It is heavily documented that MLK should not be traveled if you don’t have either big rims, or some form of a firearm by your side. I acted like I didn’t care, but inside I was terrified. Needless to say I made a quick u-turn, and booked it like O.J. Simpson. (Writers note: R.I.P. Wesley Willis.) After the brief stint on MLK, my memory cells failed, and I have no idea what happened. What I do know is that my house is a good 35 minutes away from there, and I must have driven like a champ to have successfully survived the trip. Normally, I’m a fan for blacking out. It saves me from any and all embarrassment from the things that I shamefully did the night before. Things I allegedly did of course. Seriously, if someone told you that you pissed on some guys shoe for no reason, but you had no memory of doing so. It’s like you never did it. Which is awesome. It allows you to feel no shame for doing just about anything. “Dude, I can’t believe you made out with that bum, and then kicked his dog, you were really wasted.” I did? Sweet. I woke up on Sunday with a top 5 hang over. I’m talking wmd’s exploding on my head bad. I actually think I contemplated suicide at one point when I found out that my hang over was immuned to any and all painkillers. I drank like three bottles of pepto, I mean, my God. I swore to myself I would never again take part in the debauchery that is alcohol consumption. I also swore I would never step foot in a Chuck E. Cheese, and we all know who won that battle. Flash forward to me getting punched in the junk by some renegade 7 year old that is desperately trying to get to his seat to see the infamous Mr. Munch play his set on the drums, while Chuck sings a great rendition of some mind numbingly dumb children’s song. If I were a terrorist, my Jihad would totally be against that establishment, and all that it stands for.