Smart Like Tractor

Alcohol causes my filter to malfunction.

Now if you’ve read much of my stuff you may be thinking what filter? However, I’m not really the same guy in person as I am via the written word. See, I don’t usually like to make people feel uncomfortable in person. Over the Internet it’s fine because I have no clue who or where you are. I don’t have to worry about how you’re going to react to me writing about seeing old man testicles while stretching or letting forth with a fart so diabolical it caused my son to blow his groceries all over the back seat of my car. If such stories upset you then you can just hit that little back button and piss right off, ya freakin’ pansy.

In person, I don’t generally tell people to piss off or call them pansies, unless alcohol is involved, and then bad shit can happen.

I’ve got some alcohol-fueled stories from my younger days, but I’ve got a “reputation” to maintain so I’ll have to think on it before I decide to tell any of them. Actually, I don't really have any stories like that. My youth was pretty tame. These days it’s rare for me to drink to the point of intoxication and I’m usually just hanging out with friends and family anyway, so it makes for a relaxed evening and that’s the way I like my life. I drink to being over the legal limit maybe once a year.

One interesting thing I’ve noticed, however, is that being hung over also causes my filter to malfunction. I don’t have to technically still be drunk to be an asshole. Suffering from the after-effects of too much booze seems to punish my constitution to the point where I have a hard time NOT saying what I really feel.

I should note that I’m hung over right now. This story literally just happened.

To provide you with some back story, yesterday was a warm and sunny Sunday. My kids wanted to go to the amusement park. I did not. I wanted to go for a run then sit on my back deck and read my book. My kids whined. I told them to suck it up and go play with their friends. My wife said she’d take them and I could have the house to myself.

I love my wife.

I went for a run. Then I showered. Then I read four pages of my book. Then my best friend showed up with beer and a bottle of rum.

We lay in the sun, played hacky sack and Frisbee, listened to music, told bawdy stories, and got pretty damn drunk over the next several hours. Like I mentioned, I don't usually do that.

My head hurts just thinking about it.

My wife, wonderful woman that she is, didn’t even give me a hard time about getting plastered on a Sunday afternoon. I tried my best to help with getting the kids ready for bed, but I was a total spaz and screwed up the routine badly enough that my wife just shoved me aside and did it herself. It was a good thing school is out and I didn’t have to make lunches or I’d have probably given them capers, tic tacs and beer in their lunch boxes.

I also forgot to drink Gatorade.

If you’ve read my chapter on supplements and why they suck then you know that I am an advocate of the consumption of Gatorade before bed when drinking to excess. It is the best hangover prevention that I know of, and I forgot to drink it.

But I was reminded, this morning, when I awoke to all the demons of Hell ramming pitchforks into my left eye socket. I hate those guys.

Monday. Work. Fuck.

As far as I know, I still have a job. I didn’t do anything bad at work. I’m not sure I did anything good, but I didn’t try and French the new receptionist or anything. See? I’m still hung over and my filter is still fucked. My bad.

Anyway, my co-worker / gym partner knew I was a hung over piece of shit and came to my office just before the lunch hour and said, “All right you puddle of puke, time to get your ass to the gym and atone for your sins.”

He just got married on a beach in Mexico. I dragged him to the gym many times over the last year when he was hung over to help him lose 25 pounds for his beach wedding. Now the bastard was paying me back. This is the gratitude I get for helping him get in shape. Prick.

“I didn’t bring my stuff,” I said, trying to escape.

“Bullshit. I know you’ve got backup gear in your locker. Time to go.” He was serious. He wasn’t letting me off the hook and I was too mentally debilitated to argue with him effectively.

I’ve worked out hung over before and felt better about myself for at least attempting to undo some of the damage, but in this case I was such a steaming pile of dog vomit that I staggered around the gym in a spastic haze not knowing where to go or what to do. My muscles had no strength in them. My arms shook like a meth-addled spider monkey with cerebral palsy on every rep. I was completely useless.

Speaking of being useless, there was a group of supplement-ers at the gym. Sometimes I think I hate these guys as much as the compensating for something-ers.

There were three of them. They all had clear-plastic containers that said “Popeye’s Supplements” containing pink sludge inside of them. They all wore t-shirts that advertised supplements. They all spent more time talking about supplements than actually doing any real exercise.

My efforts at working out, lame as they might have been, were further hampered by being distracted at my disgust for them. I wanted to tell them all to just shut the fuck up already, and that they’d all get more value out of blowing daddy’s money on Transformer action figures than on their stupid supplements.

Under normal circumstances I would have just ignored them, but I wasn’t feeling normal. Hung over James – the James with the impaired filter – took over.

“Hey,” I said, “Have you guys heard about the new hyper-electro cell volumizing water they got now?”

“No,” one of them said, his eyes brightening. “Tell me about it.” I had just been kidding and figured these guys would be able to tell, but I either overestimated their intelligence or underestimated their gullibility. Or both. Hell, maybe because I was significantly bigger than them I must have some “secret” to building muscle and therefore should be listened too.

Time to go into full-on bullshit mode.

“It’s awesome!” I said. “It accelerates your creatine reuptake and bonds with all your unused gonadotrophin to hype your metabolism into a muscle blasting, fat incinerating inferno! I packed on ten pounds of muscle in the last month.” I work in marketing, and even hung over I can pitch some serious ad copy.

“Really?” one of them said.

“No,” I replied, “not really.” I went back to my lame workout.

Two of them sneered at me, but one came over and said, “What was that stuff called again?”

Let this be a warning to all women of child-bearing age not to consume alcoholic beverages during pregnancy. Clearly, this kid’s brain contained stupid he hadn’t even used yet.

“I made it up. It doesn’t exist.”

“It doesn’t?”

Like I said, smart like tractor.

“No, now piss off and let me die in peace.” He left with a confused look on his face.

I’m in the wrong business. If I was willing to sacrifice my morals then I could make a fortune selling crap supplements to guys like him.

Being ethical sucks.

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