moonshine plus eight am equals bad

So I'm at the frathouse, drinking the twelvepack of Rolling Rock I got like a responsible human being. You see, I have class the next day early as hell, and I’ll be waking up around 8 AM to accomodate this. And this is my property class, taught by a superlative professor, but also one who delights in asking questions like “I’m looking for someone who is actually prepared for class. Is there anyone like that in here?” So I have to bring my A-game. The only reason I’m even up at the house is because Wednesday is New South Park Night, and it’s just not worth it to watch them without the raucous confrerity of ten people who like the same kind of humor.

So all is going according to plan until James Leo shows up. He’s just finished off another batch of wine—he ferments his own booze, a project he’s been on for a few years now, and he’s gotten pretty damn good at it. This batch is particularly tasty, and he has three bottled with him, and who, as brother Coobank asks rhetorically, can turn down free booze. Three hours later, I’m snozzled and in the middle of an argument about overtime rules of for beirut at the West End. (They hit our last cup, but then on rebuttal both I and Coobank hit their one remaining cup. His partner agreed with us that we righteously won at that point—no overtime—but he argued long enough that we finally said fuck it. Naturally, they smacked us down in overtime. Life’s a bitch that way.)

Which brings us to this morning, when I wake up—miraculously, under the circumstances—with a splitting headache, nearly unmanning nausea, an aversion to light, and the faint taste of wine in my mouth. So the lesson here is: moonshine plus eight am equals bad. Very bad.