This month it was decided that everyone had to be wasted. All editorial meetings were conducted drunk, in bars, and every writer was told he or she needs to have at least a bit of a buzz going while writing. I personally have had about three king cans of Budweiser and my instructions were simply, "Write an intro to the Party Issue that sums it all up."
I'll tell you what's going through my head right now. I really want to go flying backwards off this chair. I don't know why. It's a compulsion I always have after a few pints. Do you ever feel like that in bars? Just winging backwards, especially with bar stools. Those things are so tall it's like you're pole vaulting across the bar.
OK, so here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to try it right now. I'm in my kitchen and it has tile floors so this could be bad, but here we go.
TRY #1
Not so eventful. I kind of pussied out, to be honest. I put my elbows down like a little fag and now they hurt like shit. I'm scared of knocking myself out and none of my roommates noticing until the morning that I died. For Try #2 I'm going to take this chair to the living room (wood floors) no matter who it wakes up. I will also be bringing my beer. Wish me luck!
TRY #2
I'm back. I went flying backwards off my chair and it felt great. I did a backwards somersault thing and SPILLED APPROXIMATELY O% OF MY FUCKING BEER. I have to say my shoulder feels a bit wonky but it's not bad. I think this compulsion drinkers have to fly off their chairs has to do with how we feel impervious to danger. I guess that's why so many teenagers die in drunk driving accidents. Sad. For my next try I am going to really fucking give ‘er (again, I'm going to go back to the living room).
TRY #3
Woke up my roommate Karen. I told her about my experiment and she rolled her eyes because she is a lonely cunt who hasn't been laid in over two years. She bought a dog to help her deal with the loneliness but everyone in the house agrees that the dog is a crutch and she is never going to meet anyone if she keeps up this prude bitch attitude. Er, you have to GO OUT to meet people Karen!
My back fucking kills right now. Right in the fleshy part above my hip (right side). I'd like to get that Mad magazine guy to create an invention where it wouldn't hurt to go flying off your chair. Like an Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret back brace or something.
FATTY ARBUCKLE SANDWICH
