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”.
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.