It Was God’s Plan for Me to get Fucked Up on Christmas Eve Eve

I bear absolutely no responsibility for my raging hangover on Christmas Eve.  If you were offended by it, then talk to the big guy upstairs.  “Why would you want to be hungover and borderline ill for your daughter’s first Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house?”.  Because God wanted it that way is my answer.  If God didn’t want me to be hungover all day Saturday, then why did he(she….but not he-she, though if that is what it is, then I guess that is cool) insist on me drinking heavy beer in the evening, followed by Islay Scotch all night?  Riddle me that, Batman.  If it is God’s plan for the Denver Broncos to go on a 5 game winning streak, for your aunt Penny to meet her soul mate (aka 4th husband) Lenny on match.com, and if it is all part of the Lord’s Divine Plan that your kid have spinal bifida, then I guarangoddamntee you that Yahweh drew it up on his X’s and O’s board that I was to get Native American at a land negotiation drunk on December 23rd.  I would take responsibility for my actions if only I was actually guiding myself through this so-called “life”.  But I’m not.  This is God’s plan baby, and I’m just along for the ride.  Fuck free will.  Listen, God laid before me a fantastic day of exploring a quaint little town in Central Ohio, and a bar with a highly respectable beer list in said town.  God then guided our sleigh back to my parents’ house, where God had the foresight to send me earlier in the morning to a local market to acquire numerous bottles of excellent ale.  God put my young child to slumber and brought to my parents’ home excellent friends.  God also placed in the cupboard an excellent bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail Islay Scotch.  God then ignited a lovely roaring fire in a woodsy setting with a very comfortable sofa on which to lounge.  Now you tell me Johnny Teetotaler….What the fuck was I supposed to do?  Was I to walk up to the man God himself, point at something in the sky with alarm, and then while his attention was diverted upward, swat him as hard as I could in the ball sack with the back of my hand?  Maybe you would bag God, buy I sure as shit am not.  So I did what the Lord intended and got shitfaced.  At least I stumbled–at some point–to bed.  Other players in God’s plan for Zach’s December 23rd apparently “fell asleep” on the sofa and in a chair, only to be discovered by the matriarch at 3am as Bluegrass was still being broadcast over the stereo from Heaven.  Thankfully for me, God did not want me to have a stiff neck on Christmas Eve.  Only a sour stomach, body-rattling belches, a throbbing skull and constant feeling of being underwater all day. 

I’m Scotch-Irish.  What the fuck do you want from me?   

About Zach

Male homo sapien. Warrior poet. I live in Chicago with one wife, one offspring, and Scout the dog. I enjoy various stuff. Besides skinny skiing and going to bullfights on acid, I also enjoy running, reading, drinking, eating and procrastinating on many things, such as starting this blog. I have a mom, a dad, and a younger brother who recently produced a sister-in-law. I'm the only person in my family, sister-in-law included, who doesn't have a post-graduate degree. I guess that makes me special. I grew up in a small to medium sized town in the middle of Ohio. In fact the even smaller town next door has a sign which reads "The Geographic Center of Ohio". Given this is what they choose to boast you can only imagine how exciting that town is. My town is infinitely cooler. For example on weekend nights people from my town and the surrounding villages and hamlets converge on the public square to "cruise" in their souped-up mini trucks, some bearing Confederate flags, despite growing up and living rather safely north of the Mason-Dixon line. This is high-minded stuff we're talking about here. I graduated sometime during the Clinton presidency from the local high school where I played football and participated in absolutely nothing else. This strategy paid huge dividends when I applied to numerous colleges on the eastern seaboard which were highly selective. When you show up to the admissions table with "HIgh School Football and Nothing Else" on your application, you get respect. After graduating from Ohio University with a degree in Economics that I've used for absolutely nothing, I moved to Boston. Boston is a lovely city. I was doing things I'm not proud of for beer money and I left after 16 months. My next move was to Chicago and 10+ years later there I still reside. I write this blog for therapeutic reasons. Much like some people paint to relax or smoke crack to unwind after a stressful day, I record my thoughts on Al Gore's World Wide Web for 9 friends, 4 family members, 1 person who accidentally clicked through after an unsuccessful Google search for something else, and a guy named Patriot1 who lives in a silver Air Stream in the Nevada desert and broadcasts his own radio show. Is there a point to all of this? I doubt it. Years ago and in a galaxy far, far away (College Park, Maryland, then Athens, Ohio) I was toying with the idea of being a journalism major. I enjoyed writing so it seemed the obvious fit. Then I attended career day and learned that journalism majors could look forward to a salary of $EA,TSH.IT per year with the promise of a fatal heart attack at 47 years of age. I'm not falling for that trick, I told them (them being no one, and told being saying it in my own mind in the shower). Approximately 15 years later here I sit declared the big winner in that battle: I never made any money doing anything else and now I'm writing entirely for free. So suck balls, journalism career day. The views expressed in this website are mine and mine entirely. I don't wish to be an even bigger black eye to my family than I probably already am. As a result of this I will never be able to run for public office and I accept that reality. But this website is a very dignified, well-dressed skeleton full of witty retorts and honorable deeds compared to the disheveled, stenching, staggering and loud skeletons who would come marching out of the closet to White Zombie's "Thunderkiss '65" if they ever unearthed the college years. So enjoy your train ride, your hangover day at work, your AA meeting or your dump. I'm here to serve.
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