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*hic* by Trey Printer Friendly

I should be in bed right now, but I just don't feel like sleeping. Instead, I reached up to the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet, pushed aside all those half empty boxes of plastic spoons, dug out my trusty jelly jar, and mixed up my favorite cocktail. I call it the drunken mess.

The Drunken Mess

Ingredients

1 Jelly Jar

2oz of Bourbon Whiskey

2oz more of Bourbon Whiskey

1/4c of Bourbon Whiskey

6 Ice Cubes (optional)

Directions

Shake the dead roaches out of the empty jelly jar, making sure to remove all the legs and such stuck to the bottom.

Add ice cubes to taste.

Gently fold in the Bourbon Whiskey until you reach the top of the jelly jar.

Drink and Repeat.


There's something about a monday evening drunk. It's sort of like watching somebody wash down a handful of Flintstone's vitamins with a half bottle of Vodka. It's just creepy. You worry about the guy, and wonder what the hell he's thinking.

I say, fuck it. I had a shitty day at work, it's crazy muggy out so my thighs are uncomfortably sweaty, and I just (shudder)cleaned out my fridge.

So it was monday today. Monday is an awful day already. I figure my boss should just be thankful I went through the trouble of dragging myself into the office. If I wanted to work for a living I wouldn't have gotten a college degree, and as a rule work is a no-no on monday. Monday is for catching up on my websurfing and reading whatever's been posted on the strangelands.

But today, oh today, everyone was having problems. I must have done 4 or even 5 hours of work.

So this one guy sent me an email that said, "there's a number the wrong color on the website, we have a big presentation and need it fixed now." Usually, I ignore this sort of thing, but this happens to be one of the people who can get me fired so I take the time to email him back.

I work on a financial application so we have hundreds of pages of numbers of all sorts of shades and sizes. I suck it up and send him an email asking, "which number?" To which he replies, "Obviously, the one that shouldn't be red."

Sigh... this guy makes probably makes 5 times the money I do. Somehow I picture him telling his boss at work, "Yeah, so I asked Trey to fix the number and he actually asked me which one. I mean, I already told him that it was the one that shouldn't be red. What an idiot huh?".

Thus, I get to spend an hour digging through pages and pages of numbers looking for something red that shouldn't be. God bless management.

My whole day went like that.

You don't get away from idiots in the corporate world, but at least they give you a lunch hour.

Anyway, I found a pound of ground beef in my freezer. The date said March. Old, but still in the realm of edibility if frozen, right?

I pushed a few dozen single serve lime jello cups out of the way to make room and moved the ground beef to the fridge section to thaw.

Yes, my fridge is full of Lime Jello. When you're a hairy chested whiskey drinking bad ass like myself you don't even bother keeping beer around which leaves extra space for jello, and jello is made out of crushed up cow bones so it's extra good.

Anyway, after a couple of hours I went to my fridge to get some jello and all the frost had thawed off the top of the ground beef. It was green and distinctly un-meat-like.

I tried to think back to when I actually put it in my freezer and decided it must have been march 2004 or maybe 2003. Now, if Ray Lee had been around he probably would have eaten it, but after years of drunken 3am munchies, his stomach has learned to cope with things like carpet fuzz, car tires, and 3 year old meat.

I gave the shit a pass, but it did inspire me to clean out my fridge.

As I peeled the vegetable matter from the strange brown soup that has collected at the bottom of my fridge, two things occurred to me.

The first was a question, does cheese ever really go bad? Isn't cheese just rotten milk anyway?

I kind of thought you started out with milk, forgot about it for a while and ended up with buttermilk.

You plan on throwing that away, but end up watching that episode of Antiques Roadshow where that lady comes in with a really ugly lamp she bought at a garage saile and starts crying when the guy in the suit tells her it's worth a kagillion dollars and you start crying because you actually have to work for a living and forget about the milk.

After a couple of weeks as buttermilk it turns into sour cream. Now you're sort of curious to see what happens so you find something else to do like alphabatizing your porn collection by Key Grip. This takes all night, part of the next day, and a box and a half of tissues.

Now the milk is looking a lot like cottage cheese, but your're afraid to pick up the carton because the sides are bulging and it's seams are looking sort of wet. At this point you start cursing yourself for not buying a plastic jug.

I've never made it past this point. Either the neighbors start complaining about the smell or my girlfriend refuses to come over because she's swears the milk is watching her through the sides of the fridge. But I figure the next step must be cheese.

I think if some asshole spits in the carton you end up with yogurt, but I haven't tested that theory yet.

The second thing that occurred to me was a new extreme sport.

You see all those extreme sports guys on tv with their baggy pants and strange facial peircings thinking they're the shit just because they can do a 6 foot verticle hop on a skateboard rocketing downhill at 40 miles an hour, perform a double backflip with a twist and land on a bannister where they continue to slide until they reach the head shop at the bottom of the hill where they plant their face in the pavement, dig their teeth out of the asphalt with the key to their mom's house where they still live, and go inside to buy a new bong.

I say that shit's for pussies.

Next season on ESPN 5 I wanna see something really dangerous. I wanna see Bachelor Fridge Eating.

You take two contestants, blind fold them, and send them into a kitchen with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other.

They find their way to the fridge and start eating whatever they can find.

The last man standing gets a trophy and his stomache pumped for free.

Bonus points for eating that funky shit in the crisper.

For the Americans, my money is on Ray.

Of course, at the world championship he'd be beaten in the finals by an 85 pound orphan named Ontumachakoka who grew up eating raw sewage in some third world backwater, but you can't win 'em all.

You know, forget ESPN, this is straight to Pay Per View. Hell yeah...


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