12 Rounds with a Mai-Tai !!!

"I feel like ass!"

Maybe it was something in the food. It really is the only solution that even begins to sound reasonable.

Sure, we had a lot to drink the night before. Sure, I had 4 Vodka Gimlets, 4 Blue Hawaiian's, 2 shots of Tequila, a shot of Sambuca and a Hurricane. Sure, I was drunk; we all were -- but we all managed to make it home in one piece. We collapsed drunk in our respective homes and no one woke up in a pool of vomit or feces.

All in all, I'd say it was a pretty average evening.

The problems began the next morning. To say that I was hung over would be a bit of an understatement. It was all I could do to keep from falling over in the shower -- but I managed. As always, I make the drive to the office and stumble to my desk wiping the last fragments of sleep from my eye, praying that it will be a calm and uneventful day.

Initially things seemed to be alright. My head was clearing and I didn't feel quite so dizzy -- that's when it hit me!

You know the feeling you get in the bottom of your stomach, the one that runs cold through your colon when the urgency of nature's call hits you like a freight train? Yeah, it was like that. While I wasn't to bothered at first the uneasiness in my bowels and the queasy feeling in my stomach motivated me to make plans for a rather short trip to the bathroom.

As soon as I laid eyes on the toilet the pipes backed up and the dam burst. The sting of stomach acid burned my nose and throat as the vomit sailed across the room and into the bowl. Doubled over and heaving I could feel the blood rushing to my head and pressing hard against the back of my eye.

The convulsions didn't last long, but I was absolutely spent. It was only six-thirty in the morning but I felt as though I'd just gone 12 rounds with George Foreman. I lie there on the cold bathroom tile, staring up at the ceiling wondering if I should go back to my desk or just call it quits and go home for the day.

In the end, I decided to go home. Of course, that involved me going to my supervisor and telling him I was sick and needed someone to cover my shift. During my search for the boss I ran into a couple of co-workers that had been out to the bar as well. One young lady (Linda), who had certainly consumed her fair share of alcohol the night before, seemed perfectly fine. While my other co-worker (Mike) looked as green as I did.

"I feel like ass! -- and you look like one."

I really wasn't up for this kind of banter at such an ungodly hour, especially not with the taste of bile and grenadine still lingering between my teeth; I simply announced that I was sick and was going home for the day. There were nods and raised eyebrows but no one carried the conversation much further.

"It must have been the nachos." I heard Mike say as I dragged my weak and weary body back to the car for the trip home.

EPILOGUE:

It wasn't until I got home and looked in the mirror that I realized what Mike had meant when he'd said I looked like ass. The capillaries in my ears and nose had burst and so had the blood vessels around my eye. I really did look like I'd had the shit beaten out of me -- I looked like ass.

The next day I had a black eye (I won't even begin to describe what things looked like underneath the patch) and what looked like a rash on my cheeks and nose.

Imagine trying to explain that one to the boss.