Tuesday 16 July 2013

Foufounes Electrique -- The Morning After.

   

    I wake up with a horrible hangover. My head feels like the door of a cheap motel when an angry pimp arrives to settle a debt. My mouth is so dry it feels as though I'm in the middle of a desert wearing a corduroy suit and listening to Ben Stein give a History lecture. Slowly and with the careful nature of a snake charmer I begin to rise from bed. As I sit up a wave of dizziness sweeps over me like a tsunami and my brain throbs like the Hulk is using it as a stress ball.

Water!
 
    Watetrwaterwatertwaterwaterwater.. Oh my sweet clean goddess of life, how could I have strayed so far? I beg forgiveness at the bathroom sink as my neglected morning erection subsides. I glare down at it, "This is all your fault. Why would I go out if not for you pressing at my jeans and filling my head with dreams of sweaty dance floors and beautiful women?" I turn to the toilet and attempt to urinate as my stomach churns. I briefly imagine that there is a mini night club in there and the DJ just dropped the bass. My stomach responds with a groan sounding slightly like Skrillex. This --which I would have found quite humorous in any other state, makes me grimace. I flush, tuck away my manhood and brush my teeth. Brushing my teeth brings relief similar to that I imagine unicorns may have felt if Noah had gone back for them. Having sufficiently killed the millions of tiny demons making hell out of my mouth I make my way to the kitchen with the tactical grace of Snooki after two bumps of ketamine.
      I start coffee and sit on the counter reminiscing about last nights blurred beauty-- lights, loud music, dark dance floors, feigned interest, lost smiles, lapse of reason, cheap pizza smothered with hot sauce, late buses, and finally collapsing into bed fully clothed without any water. What a sadistic dance we do, this dirty sexy city and I. With Montreal, any night can be prom night and she is an ever willing partner. I then walk to my living room and collapse on the couch like I'd been punched in the face by George St. Pierre and begin wallowing in the post-drunk haze and heat of a mid July morning. Feeling incredibly dramatic and apathetic about anything that doesn't concern the effects of my poor choices, I roll lazily off the couch and switch on my Nintendo 64 with Mario kart inserted and begin to kill the day. All this while pouting wordlessly and hoping that someone will telepathically pick up on my dejected state and bring me ice cream. Hangovers turn me into a very lazy house cat.
True fact.

Brandon Cummings
Zebrat.

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