I ain't goin' out like that... or maybe I am

Not to be alarmist, but I woke up in the middle of the night choking on what I have to assume was my own vomit. Now it's possible that someone snuck in and poured a glass of vomit into my mouth. But I'm not lending that theory much credence; it would be hard to prove who's vomit it was because you can't really dust for vomit (R.I.P. Eric "Stumpy Joe" Childs).

I hadn't been drinking at the John Bonham level (maybe more along the lines of a Lohan or a Dunst), and an autopsy would have shown no other drugs in my system. So what the fuck? I'm not sick, in the traditional sense. I haven't eaten anything that would try to crawl back up, though I had sushi two days ago.

The only solution is to recreate last night down to the last detail and sleep with my camcorder on. Then my filmmaking partner, M.Wing, can use the footage in our biopic of the great Bon Scott. I realize that's not actually a solution. But it would give me an excuse to wear sleeveless denim and sing like this:

Vomit ratio

I vomit approximately once for every 50 times I drink.*
That ratio increases to 1:2 when I substitute weightlifting for drinking.
So, good people, without further scientific evidence needed, I declare binge alcohol consumption to be healthier than exercise.

Case motherfuckin' closed.






*Based on 8 or more drinks of various delicious combinations.

Almost had a good idea but it turned out to be bad

I've developed a weird habit of cooking at 3 in the morning whilst drunk. I'm sure that's perfectly safe.

I mixed and made pancakes one night. Last night I fried catfish and baked cornbread. I could probably make money off this somehow. Maybe open a window and pass food to the late-night lushes who don't want Whataburger or IHOP. Of course, then I'd have to go out every morning and mop up the piss and vomit in front of my apartment. So scratch that. If I wanted to mop up vomit every day, I'd work at Arby's.