Bar Scene

Drinking: Too Much vs. Shut Up

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Anybody who knows us, knows that we at Van Full of Candy like to party. They’re usually tipped off to this fact by us screaming “WE LIKE TO PARTY!” in their face moments before we collapse and begin to evacuate our bladders into our slacks.

Over the years fans of distilled spirits have seen their perception as lovable boozy goofs who’s only problem is not having enough lamp shades in their study, replaced by that of vomitous cretin vehicularly manslaughtering anyone who gets in the way of their dangerous, irresponsible drinking spree. And now the dry mainstream media is at it again, trying to shame Drunken-Americans into believing that they’re lifestyle is wrong.

I stumbled upon an article titled “6 Sneaky Signs You Drink Too Much” which is at best (something) and at worst a disgusting insult to my very personal identity to even begin to tell me that there might only be six.  So I feel it is my duty– NAY, HONOUR (with the extra “u” being for EXTRA honor), to meet these slanderous characterizations and defamatory defaming with a six pack of rebuttal, a bottle of truth and a row of shots… of alcohol… talk.

I call this drink the "Cleaning out Daddy's Medicine Cabinet"
I call this drink the "Cleaning out Daddy's Medicine Cabinet"

First, the article categorizes 38 million adults as habitual “binge drinkers”, who enthusiastically embibe “an average of four times a month” and define bingeing as having “four or more drinks in a short period of time” for women and five or more for men. Well that’s fine, because I generally only have one, maybe two “daddy beverages” in a sitting from my 32 ounce Harrison Ford, “Cowboys & Aliens” 7-11 collectible Slurpee cup, so clearly there’s no problem here. But onto the “signs”.

#1: You become a daredevil.

Well sure, it’s called “liquid courage” for a reason. And while you may site that the “National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism” (like that’s even a real thing) says that alcohol factors into 60 percent of all fatal burn injuries and drownings, 40 percent of fatal falls and car accidents and 50 percent of all sexual assaults, I say that it’s responsible for 95 percent of all flaming cliff diving vehicular orgies, and the stories of which that will last a lifetime for all those who survive them.

#2:  You’re a weekend warrior.

Here I will agree with the booze haters: no one likes a weekend warrior. You can’t just sit behind your desk 5 days a week and then come out and try to party like the big boys when you and the girls head out Friday night to chat about what a bitch Gary in HR is. It’s insulting to those of who practice the fine art of imbibing every day to hone our livers into the iron clad filtration machines that they are. You don’t just pull a helmet out of the closet and run onto the field Sunday morning and expect to hang with the pros. I can crush a bowling ball with the strength of my drinking elbow. It’s like a god damn crocodile’s jaw, all of the power is in it’s closing!

#3: Drinking just “creeps up on you.”

“One of the clues that you may be a binge drinker is not knowing your limits…”

No, that’s one of the clues that you may be an ass. I’m starting to see what’s happening here, you’re blaming this miracle sauce which grants +7 charisma and +2 fire resistance, for the stupidity of it’s users. You can’t just give any moron super powers and then be surprised when they don’t understand the great responsibility that goes along with them. I guess what I’m saying is I support drinking licenses. I’m not sure what the test to obtain one would be yet, but I imagine it would be awesome.

#4: Your memory has temporarily gone missing.

I’m sorry, are you referring to “Tequila Time Travel”: The phenomena of time jumping inside your own body from the end of one drink to an indeterminate time in the future, where you will then be told of your exploits during that period that your consciousness leapt over like you’re some kind of god damned folk hero? I’m accidentally obliterating all known laws of science and religion and somehow I’M the asshole?

#5:  You let some responsibilities slide.

Listen, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t tell me not to drive the school bus with my navigator Jim Beam, and then yell at me for not being irresponsible. It seems like I am making the more responsible choice of not careening through the streets, yelling back at the children in my care that if they don’t stop screaming that I’m going to murder their families with the remains of their most beloved pet, by waiting just a tic or two ’till my buzz dies down. So you get to school a little late, I’m a hero that you get there at all.

And #6: People close to you seem concerned.

“If your family, friends, or co-workers have hinted that they’re worried about you…”

They are terrible drinking buddies.

Cheers.

"New plan! Field trip!"
"New plan! Field trip!"

Hey Sugar Twat, Can Van Full of Candy Buy You a Drink?

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Well, look at this, heaven must be missing it’s sexiest, most charming, best hung angel… ’cause here I am.

"I get knocked DOWN, but I get up again!"
"I get knocked DOWN, but I get up again!"

But seriously though, I couldn’t help but notice you checking me out from across the bar. I get that a lot. I thought I’d make my way over here before you strained something molesting my delicious visage with your molesty eye hands from twenty yards. You’re welcome. Or, you will be, SEVERAL times… I mean sex. Oh, you got that, sure, of course you did. Oh you WILL get it, SEVERAL times… Again, sex.

Oh, come on, no need to be shy, I look good. I know it, you know it, our pants know it. If I looked any better in this shark skin smoking jacket I’d have to travel with a highly trained squad of sexy kung fu body guards just to keep the other squads of sexy kung fu body guards at bay. Fortunately, I’m fresh outta sexy kung fu body guards tonight, so it’s just you, me and the luscious feel of shark skin. You know, me and sharks have a lot in common. Oh yeah, it’s true. Just like a shark I can smell my prey’s warm, viscous fluids from miles away and like a shark I can never fall asleep because if I do I’ll drown… Doctor’s say it’s because of a gap in my glottal flap, but I like to think it’s because God knew I was just too smooth to waste a minute on my back without someone else on top of me.

Hey, where you going? Oh, I get it, you’re intimidated. You don’t think you’re good enough for me. Well, I’m not gonna lie, most of my regular class of lady are either models, super models, or have been black balled from the super model community for being too god damned sexy. But don’t be discouraged, I’m here to tell you right here, right now, you’re not nearly as fat as you think you are. That’s the truth, and that is a compliment. That’s a high compliment, believe that. I don’t say that to just any lady. I think you’re special. I think it’s your many, MANY flaws that drew me to you in the first place. You’re like a Picasso, you’re exotic because most of your shit isn’t where it’s usually supposed to be and while it makes me want to throw up all over you while screaming in utter horror, it’s also intriguing.

sweat... condensate...
sweat... condensate...

Look, I get your game. It’s cute, but hard to get has always been one of my least favorite forms of foreplay. I did you a favor coming over here, you know? I could have just stayed in my corner booth, sippin’ my Old Milwaukee Gimlet while silently continuing to judge the fellatio contest going on under the table. Oh yeah, that’s what was happening. That is what was happening for absolute realsies. There’s a table cloth on there for two reason. One, because I’m the classiest mother fucker in this whole damned place, and two, because fellatio contests are a serious form of sexual competition that I have great respect for and I know that concentration and privacy are the key. But I saw you seeing me and I thought, “This chick’s got the mouth of a champion.” But maybe I was wrong. I don’t use the “R” word often missy, but I’m usin’ it here. I’m usin’ the shit out of it. I see now that you’re just stuck up, kind of a bitch, probably a lesbian and not even in my league any way. That’s alright, I knew that before I came over. I just thought I’d give you a thrill. Just a little tale you can tell your grand daughters someday about how they could have been much more attractive and charming if only their stuck up bitch dyke gran hadn’t been all uppity and shit that fateful night.

That’s alright, no skin off my naturally chiseled nose. Did I mention I’m a nose model? Yeah, that’s right, you’ve probably seen some of my work. Ever seen billboards? Yeah, well that’s me, all the time. No shit.

Hey, nice taser. You get a bowl of soup with that? Ha-HA! Oh, oh I see, it shoots mace too. Mace that is then electrified by the taser, that’s a new feature. Touche.

Alright, well I’m in excruciating pain now. I’m not sure if I’m actually on fire, or if it just FEELS like I head butted the sun. So let’s just call this a rain check. I come here a lot, I’m sure we’ll bump into each other again some time. Oh, hey, that’s a second volley of electrified non lethal liquid repellant. And that’s my cue to call it a night.

Sorry ladies, we’re going to have to pick the suck games up another time, this nice lady just melted my face off, two times. You’ve disappointed a floor full of super foxy dick suckers toots.

Hey, could somebody bring my car around? It’s the sky blue Taurus with the “CNTPNDR” plates. Give me a holler when we’re ready, I’ll just be over here screaming into this mop bucket full of ice until my throat bleeds. Check you on the flip chicky poo.

Smooches.