The Grand-Dad of All Hangovers

My stomach is making offensive noises, my temples are pulsating painfully, my mouth tastes likes Lincoln, ME, and none of the objects in the immediate area are making much sense to me. In short, I finally got to try “Old Grand-Dad” whiskey last night. I’ve been wondering about it ever since I was old enough to drink, and I finally had both the funds and the gumption simultaneously last night at Hannaford. I personally don’t ever really detect much difference between bottom shelf and top shelf liquor. I’m just gonna mix it with root beer or Dr. Pepper or some other ridiculous thing, so it always tastes about the same: like soda with a band-aid in it. I’m not in it for the taste treat of the century, a good thing since as it happens this is a not a claim made on the bottle anywhere that I can see by the good manufacturers of “Old Grand-Dad”. granddad86.jpg
Look at Old Grand-Dad. He’s trashed. And not the fun-loving, party-hearty kind of trashed. He’s past all that. The laughter has ceased, the stage where everyone suddenly wants to run around outside is over, the people who went off to have sex are probably awkwardly pulling on their socks about now, the begrudging game of Up and Down the River has fizzled out, and now it’s just Old Grand-Dad and his somber, sepia-tone plowing recollections.

Let’s be honest, he probably didn’t even go to a party. He’s just slumped in a rocking chair, scowling and soused, yearning for the sweet release that slapping a loved one brings. Unfortunately, his loved ones all either wisely moved far away, where they speak of him only in the most hateful terms, or he slapped them all to death. Now he’s got no one to slap but himself, and he does, again and again. “This hurts,” thinks Old Grand-Dad. “No wonder everyone hates me. Waaaaaaah haaaaaaaaaaahh hhhaaaaaaaaaahhh! Oh aaaahhhhhhhh! COUGH HACK HACK HACK! COUGH COUGH HACK! HOOLEH! HOOOLLLLLLEEEEEEEEGGGGHHHH!!!”

Old Grand-Dad. Since 1882.

Before adventuring with Old Grand-Dad, Annie had dragged me along to an uncomfortable Christmas party at this moderately swanky old place called the Heritage House at UMO, where people from her work-study job were eating food and exchanging presents. Annie has not been working there very long, and only knew a couple people. Most of the people there were old and had known each other for a good long time. As such, we ate in silence and snuck out the back door. The food was good, though. All home-made foodstuffs. Comfort food like homemade mac and cheese, chicken pot pie, and Swedish meatballs. Even a crock pot full of L’il Smokies!

Then we ran screaming from the boisterous yet uninspiring houseful of conversation to Hannaford, and from there to home, where we unsuccessfully tried to watch several things, including a Dr. Who I’d borrowed from Bill, “Fortune Dane” starring Carl Weathers, and “C.H.O.M.P.S.”. Only the latter had any hope of holding our half-crocked interest, and that only because there was a big furry mean black dog in it that could talk and had a bad attitude. Basically they would just show a close-up of the dog’s face and a voice that sounded like a cross between Isaac Hayes and Pat Buttram would say something gruff and sassy, one of the best examples of which would be “Up your poop, Granny!” Needless to say, this got repeated numerous times over the course of the evening.

I don’t know what the hell we’re gonna do with our weekend. We’re not remotely done with our Christmas shopping, so we’ll probably have to go to a store at some point, the mere thought of which makes me want to chug the rest of the Old Grand-Dad.

I need to go take eleven Motrin. Goodbye.

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12 Responses to “The Grand-Dad of All Hangovers”

  1. That burger banner is so vile, so deeply repulsive and gray-meated and greezylooking, that I almost miss Markie Post’s tendony saddle-range in high-hipped bikini bottoms.

    Almost.

  2. That burger banner is so vile, so gray-meated and greezylooking and repulsive, that I almost miss Markie Post’s rangy, tendony bikini-clad saddle range.

    Almost.

  3. Hey, what happened there?

  4. I don’t know, but it inadvertently provided an insightful window into your comment-editing process.

    I’d like to agree with you about the burger-banner, but I get hungry every time I look at it. I can feel the meatwater trickling down my esophagus.

  5. I love Old Grandad. I used to have this friend, Hiro, when I was at UMO who drank it every weekend. I had to buy it for him all of the time (Hannaford would not sell to people with foreign forms of ID) so I got to drink it with him all of the time… I think we need to go get us some of that right now.

    I don’t really miss hangovers, though.

  6. Few understand the pains of life as well as Old Grand-Dad. I like alcohol that is named after a person. I think Lord Calvert and Old Grand-Dad would hit it off. They better, they’re usually right next to each other on the shelf.

    I tried to put Old Grand-Dad in coffee yesterday. It was NOT a success.

  7. Lately adding any sort of alcohol to coffee has resulted in puking. I am chalking that up to getting old?

  8. Truth be told, I’ve never been a big fan of adding alcohol to a beverage (Yes, blasphemy, I know).

    I’m starting to come around on this though, and I’ve been really tempted to pep-up my egg nog with something, but I just can’t decide what to add. Any suggestions?

  9. I think the general consensus is that rum is best in eggnog, but to be honest I’ve never actually put anything alcoholic into eggnog before, even though that’s traditionally the whole point of it. I can’t imagine vodka would be any good in it. Some sites are telling me that bourbon is good in it, but I don’t know about that. Maybe some nice Jagernog bombs would be tasty?

    The first time I ever got alcohol poisoning (which unfortunately was also the first time I ever got drunk) was because of a mixture of cherry brandy and milk, so since then consequently I’ve never been big on mixing my dairy with my booze. Anyway, I’m not the best authority on this subject, as I traditionally make the least appealing mixed drinks on God’s green earth.

    Your avatar is upsetting!

  10. Do you think that Old Grand-Dad is married to Grandma from Grandma’s Molasses? Look her up in the baking aisle next time you are grocery shopping!!

  11. ‘like soda with a band-aid in it’ is the aptest. well done, sir. By the way, E & I (well, mostly me) have been getting into a serious bar-building phase, which is not to say we’re taking out a small business loan and opening up a drinkery, but that we (well, I) have been prowling the aisles of RSVP when I bring my bottles back and buying the cheapest, weirdest booze I can find so I can make cocktails noone’ll ever drink. You guys should come down some time,I’ll make you some randome boozverage out of my bartender book. I could make you a sex on the beach. I really could…

  12. butthorn Says:

    I love bottom-shelf liquor. I should write about Lord Calvert next. Such a classy name for such a godawful thing to pour in your mouth.

    It’s about time we came down. It’s been over a year since we were in Portland last! Isn’t that scary? When did years become microseconds? Death soon!

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