Sunday, July 09, 2006

Mass Media and My Own Damn Bad Habits

I woke up this morning. Screaming.

I don't think I can blame anyone.

Much like I don't think I can blame anyone but me for the fact that right now the background to my evening is PBS Soundstage: Garbage.

You see last night, I decided to indulge in several shots of a single malt whiskey, Laphroaig, followed by beer chasers. I went to bed around 2:30. When Mr. Scoop poked me awake at 11 AM, I was having a dream and the extraneous stimulation turned the dream from something innocuous involving FDR and some unknown quantity named "Stella" to something involving Cujo going for my face.

So I woke up screaming.

Mr. Scoop was so upset at the trauma that he had caused me that he volunteered to go get breakfast at McDonald's. Unfortunately, McDonald's stops serving breakfast at 11 AM. He got there at 11:15. My, entirely well meaning, breakfast was a Quarter Pounder with Cheese and a medium fries. And a Diet Coke. My brain reacted to the grease and starch breakfast like it was entitled to it. Like Lindsay Lohan. On a day. Before she makes herself throw up. My stomach and intestines, still wondering why it had been made to filter so much hard liquor, reacted somewhat more violently.

Let me just say that it bothers me to have this much clearer understanding of Lindsay Lohan at this point.

I may need to drink more to wipe it away - but then I'll probably just find myself facing the "Tara Reid Conundrum". If I come away from it without plastic surgery scars, I'll probably be okay.

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Normally, my weekend would have consisted of wine and beer. But TiVo decided I needed to see a program on Fine Living about Scotch whiskey on The Genuine Article. They spent most of the episode on the island of Islay - where most of my favorite whiskey is made. And then they told me that I could buy my own cask of whiskey as a retirement present to myself. Mr. Scoop worked it out. It'd actually be economical and I would be able to drink whiskey - based on the amount - everyday until I died.

Every day.

I had to go out and buy some Scotch to contemplate this.

I woke up with visions of Cujo.

Probably not auspicious.

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Today, Mr. Scoop and I caught an interesting television program called Intervention. The premise is that well meaning family members shanghai an addiction addled sibling or daughter/son/whatever and get them into rehab. It is shot "documentary style". You can see folks say "fuck" over the audio bleeps. A lot of "this is why my life sucks" footage is shot preceeding the "you have to go into rehab or I get a restraining order" scenes. It's a compelling watch.

So compelling that Mr. Scoop and I have devised a drinking game:

"The 'Intervention Drinking Game'"

While watching the program, every time you have an internal moment of "Thank God I don't have a substance abuse problem" - drink.

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3 comments:

Latigo Flint said...

You're spectacular Amandarama.

(I shudder to think
that the next can I drink
could in fact be my last.
It's not death I fear
but the absence of beer
and eternity soberly passed.)

Ari said...

Alcohol has been known to produce dreams of purple demons in bottles for me. Or maybe that was the angel dust...

Violet said...

I am sooooo all about that drinking game. Sunday nights, I'm there!