By AlCantHang © 2011
Every bad idea begins with a first step and most of the stories so far involve a good amount of Southern Comfort. It wasn't always this way when I first took my steps which lead me to such a silly life. I was a slow starter in terms of alcohol consumption yet still managed to get myself in some very stupid situations. The addition of my sweet SoCo only lit the fire a little brighter for a bigger burn.
I was just fine with the occasional light beer and fancy ass mixed drink "shot" for those first few years and took the requisite abuse from my friends. I was still drinking a ton so I assumed, incorrectly, I was getting a full dose of the crazy. It finally took a night of relentless jokes to push me to the most idiotic bet of my life. I would go shot-for-shot with Brad.
Brad was light years ahead of me in this arena. He was chugging bottles of Jack Daniels while the rest of us were trying to cheat on our high school mid-terms. He was a smoking, drinking, cursing, partying machine who was unmatched by any of our peers at the time. He was my best friend and I wanted to take down the toughest guy in the yard.
We picked the perfect bar on the perfect night and set forth the rules. No beer, non-alcoholic drinks, or anything which might skew the results. I had to pick a "real shot" to replace those girly things I was trying to pass off as the real thing and puking called for instant disqualification. Since we were young and stupid, the losing "player" would have to drive the other one home. We were not smart young men.
I was clueless in the ways of the hard liquor and slyly asked one of the bartenders "What's the booze in those Alabama Slamma shots?". Southern Comfort was the answer and to this day it's impossible to calculate exactly how much of the stuff I have consumed ever since.
The stage was set. It was a decent local bar in the Philly suburbs, our friend's band was in place for a three set gig, the bartenders were aware of our little challenge and shots were lined up. As the band kicked in their first song we lifted our 1.5oz shot glasses for a toast and we were underway.
Song. Shot.
Song. Shot.
And so on.
We were clipping along at a nice pace with the bartender just leaving the two bottles nearby. I wasn't having a single problem and we were laughing it up. If I remember correctly they did a fine version of Foreigner's Jukebox Hero. Turns out my memory might be a little fuzzy because shortly after the first set I was found clinging tightly to the walls of the bathroom stall and blowing ungodly wicked hot shots of Southern out of my system.
I was barely able to stand as Brad collected me from my comfortable seat on the floor among the afterbirth to carry me out to his car. He dumped me in the back seat, obviously ignoring the rule that I must be the one to drive the victor home, and asked me if I was going to be alright.
"Would you mind if I go back inside and finish up?"
"Wharf!" was my answer.
Four hours and two full trash bags later the bastard comes walking out of the bar with a receipt showing how much more he drank before driving me home. I was unceremoniously dumped through my front door, at 4am per my roommates at the time, which would have bothered me except we had a bathroom situated a short crawl away. I spent the next 24 hours on the cool cool tile floor.
In the short term I was defeated by the bionic liver of my friend. In the long term I have come close to mastering the delicate balance of hard booze versus functionality with a few spectacular failures along the way. But I now had my drink of choice.
AlCantHang is a seasoned alkie from the Philadelphia suburbs.
Showing posts with label AlCantHang. Show all posts
Showing posts with label AlCantHang. Show all posts
February 01, 2011
May 02, 2010
State Line
By AlCantHang © 2010
It was merely a trip across the state line barely stressful walking conditions if it wasn't for the driving rain. That was just something which came into play during my way home.
"You wanna go to another dive bar?" my newly found cousin asked me.
I came to find a this long lost cousin at a local bar near my old homestead in Pennsylvania. We hung out whenever she could get away from her drunken husband and I provided her a little amusement. This time she wanted to go see her friend run karaoke night at a bar across the state line in Delaware, which should be considered another country. Bars close at 1am, last call by at least 12:30pm, nothing resembling a decent bar scene and we were arriving with only 90 minutes of drinking time.
The bar was sitting in an old mall that in it's day was once actually pretty well done. Now it's mostly empty: a closed up Wendy's franchise, the old K-Mart stands vacant and the biggest store in the mall was a "ghetto" grocery. A Chinese buffet was located in between the bar and a Dominos Pizza. The rest of the mall was dead except for the dozen or so cars in front of the bar.
The bar served their drinks big and fast as long as you could catch the bartender when she wasn't singing karaoke. I was drinking with my cousin's god-daughter. Not nearly as creepy as it sounds -- she's not far from her 30th birthday but she is smaller than my cousin and very quiet. The three of us were having a grand ol' time until moments before last call when an older gentleman took a liking my cousin's god-daughter. At first it was funny watching the old man make a drunken pass. And she was game enough to just play him off. Just having a good time.
Then old drunk guy reached over and grabbed himself a handful of god-daughter. I jumped out of my seat and gave him the best "OY!" I had in my system. A dirty "I can do whatever I want" grab of a young woman did not stand with me.
I generally do not look like a person you want to fuck with. I can easily snap into I-will-fuck-you-up biker mode with the hair and girth. For the last 40 years, it has never once failed me when I yell "OY!" and look like I'm going to eat your next born. People generally shrink away even though I barely reach 5-foot-nothing. Not once in my life had it failed, that is, until the "old dude" took a fucking swing at my gourd.
And he connected with a respectable pop.
After my new friend popped me in the side of the head I most kindly introduced him to the floor without ever throwing a single punch back at the guy who could be my grandpa. He simply fell over. I'm not proud to say that the force on his head when it met the floor was slightly in excess of the gravitational pull of the Earth, but you will understand that my head was still ringing a little so my balance was a little off.
Hours afterward, my left ear still had a bit of ring to it and I was mildly impressed. In the end a nose was bloodied, a little dignity was lost, and the girl who's honor I defended was gone before grandpa hit the floor. I was left to walk the 2 miles back home and think about it.
Fuck Delaware.
AlCantHang is a professional party animal originally from Pennsylvania.
It was merely a trip across the state line barely stressful walking conditions if it wasn't for the driving rain. That was just something which came into play during my way home.
"You wanna go to another dive bar?" my newly found cousin asked me.
I came to find a this long lost cousin at a local bar near my old homestead in Pennsylvania. We hung out whenever she could get away from her drunken husband and I provided her a little amusement. This time she wanted to go see her friend run karaoke night at a bar across the state line in Delaware, which should be considered another country. Bars close at 1am, last call by at least 12:30pm, nothing resembling a decent bar scene and we were arriving with only 90 minutes of drinking time.
The bar was sitting in an old mall that in it's day was once actually pretty well done. Now it's mostly empty: a closed up Wendy's franchise, the old K-Mart stands vacant and the biggest store in the mall was a "ghetto" grocery. A Chinese buffet was located in between the bar and a Dominos Pizza. The rest of the mall was dead except for the dozen or so cars in front of the bar.
The bar served their drinks big and fast as long as you could catch the bartender when she wasn't singing karaoke. I was drinking with my cousin's god-daughter. Not nearly as creepy as it sounds -- she's not far from her 30th birthday but she is smaller than my cousin and very quiet. The three of us were having a grand ol' time until moments before last call when an older gentleman took a liking my cousin's god-daughter. At first it was funny watching the old man make a drunken pass. And she was game enough to just play him off. Just having a good time.
Then old drunk guy reached over and grabbed himself a handful of god-daughter. I jumped out of my seat and gave him the best "OY!" I had in my system. A dirty "I can do whatever I want" grab of a young woman did not stand with me.
I generally do not look like a person you want to fuck with. I can easily snap into I-will-fuck-you-up biker mode with the hair and girth. For the last 40 years, it has never once failed me when I yell "OY!" and look like I'm going to eat your next born. People generally shrink away even though I barely reach 5-foot-nothing. Not once in my life had it failed, that is, until the "old dude" took a fucking swing at my gourd.
And he connected with a respectable pop.
After my new friend popped me in the side of the head I most kindly introduced him to the floor without ever throwing a single punch back at the guy who could be my grandpa. He simply fell over. I'm not proud to say that the force on his head when it met the floor was slightly in excess of the gravitational pull of the Earth, but you will understand that my head was still ringing a little so my balance was a little off.
Hours afterward, my left ear still had a bit of ring to it and I was mildly impressed. In the end a nose was bloodied, a little dignity was lost, and the girl who's honor I defended was gone before grandpa hit the floor. I was left to walk the 2 miles back home and think about it.
Fuck Delaware.
AlCantHang is a professional party animal originally from Pennsylvania.
November 08, 2007
Lonesome Cowboy Bill
By AlCantHang © 2007
It was five o'clock in the morning and there was a knock at the door. I was sitting at the bar drinking with the owner and I was caught red handed. A couple friends were looking through the glass door, we all knew my night was over, it was the end of my Key West vacation. If you had given odds at the beginning of the week that I would spend my last few hours and have my last drink at a country bar someone would have been very rich.
I am most definitely not a country boy. I may have the hair of a hippie but that shouldn't confuse you when it comes to my musical appetite. My tastes lean towards loud, heavy, and fast in that order. My comfort zone is a dive rock club where I can chain smoke, power drink, and have my head assaulted with decibels equivalent to a jumbo jet taking off. The next step down the ladder would be the pubs and bars the exist for sole purpose of its patrons getting blitzed on various hardcore drinks. Then comes the sports bars, strip clubs, snooty yuppie bars, and hotel watering holes. Near the very bottom would generally be any place that plays country music. If there were such a thing as opera bars they would be the only thing ranking lower. Practically god's own miracle that after seven days in Key West I found my most comfortable spot on the planet ponied up to a self-described honky tonk.
This wasn't my first trip to the tiny two-by-four mile island with intentions of drinking to excess while groping various forms off female flesh in the name of sanity reclamation. There are the standard bar options each trip down, the menu consists of four or five bars and two strip clubs to finish off each night. You would most likely find me sitting in front of a band or staring blankly at a random sporting event while chasing away my sobriety. This time around I found my elbow leaning in a painted plywood bar watching the country music channel.
It was all because of the people. When I am on the road, I like to find bars where I don't feel like a mark for the locals, dead tourist money waiting to be sucked from my wallet. In Key West I have the normal options but found myself being talked into trying out a place called Cowboys Bill's. Several blocks away from where we were hanging out and miles away from where I would normally go. But I can be talked into just about anything by anyone of the opposite sex that looks good in a mini-skirt.
I let it slide when the doorman proudly announced PBR tallboys on special and turned a blind eye at the mechanical bull sitting idle in the middle of the outside bar. I was looking for shots, maybe a football game, and something to make we want to come back. The barstaff was the deciding factor. By the end of that first night I was placing friendly wagers at the pool table with locals, telling classic bar bullshit stories with the bartender/bouncer, and actually planning my next trip back to their bar. The extremely generous size of their shots and the blind eye towards my barely existent bar tab had only a little to do with this decision.
Two nights later I found myself sitting at the same spot at the bar drinking with the same results. I had been promised a fantastic show that evening. Nekkid girls riding the bull. I barely even noticed that we were forced to suffer listening to a hillbilly band live on stage while waiting for the festivities to kick off. The rest of my crew had their spirits broken by the band but I was sticking around. Not for the bull riding.
After the surprise of the first night's enjoyment, I received my second on my next trip back when I was introduced to the owner of the bar. She remembered me from her previous employment at another bar where I'd spent too much time and too many dollar bills. She personally welcomed me to her bar with promises of good times, endless drinks, and as much fun as I could handle. Still skeptical but I was loosening up. I was given the tour and introduced to the lovely ladies of Cowboy Bill's. I still don't think you could predict how the week was going to end but the foundation was set. Still couldn't stand the music though.
I spent the rest of the week either starting my night or ending it sitting in Cowboy Bill's drinking myself deaf. I never once felt like an outsider or a walking ATM machine. I was bought as many drinks as I dished out. I met other members of the staff and I started to feel like I was two blocks from home instead of 1,000 miles. Even at times when I should have been at home in bed getting ready for a 6 am fishing charter, I found myself shooting another game of pool two hours before I was due to step up dockside.
The final piece of evidence that I had found my new Key West playground came on my final day in town. I found a bartender who liked to drink and tell bar stories as much as anyone I knew down there. She wasn't too tough on the eyes either. I stopped into the bar before the final big night on the town to fill my stomach and empty my wallet. She wished me a good time but made me promise to come back before the end of the night when her shift ended. That way we could have one last drink before hopping the flight home.
I hit the bars with my friends like alcohol was being banned the next day. The bars led to the strip clubs which led me to the only downside of the weekend. Everyone was lined up getting their final lap teases and trying to forget they only had a few hours left in paradise. And I lost track of time. Far too late I realized that I was past the time my new favorite bartender was scheduled to be cut from the business side of the bar.
It's tough to convince a dancer in a strip club that you need to cut short the lap dance because you are late to be somewhere else. Proving my comfort and confidence in a good time at Cowboy Bill's, I intentionally left a bar full of girls looking to satisfy my carnal desires if the price was right. I left the strip club to go back to a country bar to drink with someone I barely knew. I had somehow because immune to the horrid music in response to the feeling that I was sitting in my home bar.
Unfortunately the story does not have a happy ending. I had spent way too much time at the strip club and the bar was too far away. The owner told me I missed her by mere minutes but would I like a drink to put out the flames. Beer after beer I took turns telling and listening to stories from the past. I was trying to drink away the disappointment and realization that mere hours from then I would be winging my way home.
Not long before the sun was to rise, that knock came at the door. My friends were staring in at me in the wee hours of the morning sitting comfortably with a beer in my hand in a country bar. I could almost pretend for a moment that I didn't mind the music at all. I had accomplished my mission though, I found my comfort zone in the most unlikely of places with the most unlikely people.
AlCantHang is a seasoned Socologist from Phoenixville, PA.
It was five o'clock in the morning and there was a knock at the door. I was sitting at the bar drinking with the owner and I was caught red handed. A couple friends were looking through the glass door, we all knew my night was over, it was the end of my Key West vacation. If you had given odds at the beginning of the week that I would spend my last few hours and have my last drink at a country bar someone would have been very rich.
I am most definitely not a country boy. I may have the hair of a hippie but that shouldn't confuse you when it comes to my musical appetite. My tastes lean towards loud, heavy, and fast in that order. My comfort zone is a dive rock club where I can chain smoke, power drink, and have my head assaulted with decibels equivalent to a jumbo jet taking off. The next step down the ladder would be the pubs and bars the exist for sole purpose of its patrons getting blitzed on various hardcore drinks. Then comes the sports bars, strip clubs, snooty yuppie bars, and hotel watering holes. Near the very bottom would generally be any place that plays country music. If there were such a thing as opera bars they would be the only thing ranking lower. Practically god's own miracle that after seven days in Key West I found my most comfortable spot on the planet ponied up to a self-described honky tonk.
This wasn't my first trip to the tiny two-by-four mile island with intentions of drinking to excess while groping various forms off female flesh in the name of sanity reclamation. There are the standard bar options each trip down, the menu consists of four or five bars and two strip clubs to finish off each night. You would most likely find me sitting in front of a band or staring blankly at a random sporting event while chasing away my sobriety. This time around I found my elbow leaning in a painted plywood bar watching the country music channel.
It was all because of the people. When I am on the road, I like to find bars where I don't feel like a mark for the locals, dead tourist money waiting to be sucked from my wallet. In Key West I have the normal options but found myself being talked into trying out a place called Cowboys Bill's. Several blocks away from where we were hanging out and miles away from where I would normally go. But I can be talked into just about anything by anyone of the opposite sex that looks good in a mini-skirt.
I let it slide when the doorman proudly announced PBR tallboys on special and turned a blind eye at the mechanical bull sitting idle in the middle of the outside bar. I was looking for shots, maybe a football game, and something to make we want to come back. The barstaff was the deciding factor. By the end of that first night I was placing friendly wagers at the pool table with locals, telling classic bar bullshit stories with the bartender/bouncer, and actually planning my next trip back to their bar. The extremely generous size of their shots and the blind eye towards my barely existent bar tab had only a little to do with this decision.
Two nights later I found myself sitting at the same spot at the bar drinking with the same results. I had been promised a fantastic show that evening. Nekkid girls riding the bull. I barely even noticed that we were forced to suffer listening to a hillbilly band live on stage while waiting for the festivities to kick off. The rest of my crew had their spirits broken by the band but I was sticking around. Not for the bull riding.
After the surprise of the first night's enjoyment, I received my second on my next trip back when I was introduced to the owner of the bar. She remembered me from her previous employment at another bar where I'd spent too much time and too many dollar bills. She personally welcomed me to her bar with promises of good times, endless drinks, and as much fun as I could handle. Still skeptical but I was loosening up. I was given the tour and introduced to the lovely ladies of Cowboy Bill's. I still don't think you could predict how the week was going to end but the foundation was set. Still couldn't stand the music though.
I spent the rest of the week either starting my night or ending it sitting in Cowboy Bill's drinking myself deaf. I never once felt like an outsider or a walking ATM machine. I was bought as many drinks as I dished out. I met other members of the staff and I started to feel like I was two blocks from home instead of 1,000 miles. Even at times when I should have been at home in bed getting ready for a 6 am fishing charter, I found myself shooting another game of pool two hours before I was due to step up dockside.
The final piece of evidence that I had found my new Key West playground came on my final day in town. I found a bartender who liked to drink and tell bar stories as much as anyone I knew down there. She wasn't too tough on the eyes either. I stopped into the bar before the final big night on the town to fill my stomach and empty my wallet. She wished me a good time but made me promise to come back before the end of the night when her shift ended. That way we could have one last drink before hopping the flight home.
I hit the bars with my friends like alcohol was being banned the next day. The bars led to the strip clubs which led me to the only downside of the weekend. Everyone was lined up getting their final lap teases and trying to forget they only had a few hours left in paradise. And I lost track of time. Far too late I realized that I was past the time my new favorite bartender was scheduled to be cut from the business side of the bar.
It's tough to convince a dancer in a strip club that you need to cut short the lap dance because you are late to be somewhere else. Proving my comfort and confidence in a good time at Cowboy Bill's, I intentionally left a bar full of girls looking to satisfy my carnal desires if the price was right. I left the strip club to go back to a country bar to drink with someone I barely knew. I had somehow because immune to the horrid music in response to the feeling that I was sitting in my home bar.
Unfortunately the story does not have a happy ending. I had spent way too much time at the strip club and the bar was too far away. The owner told me I missed her by mere minutes but would I like a drink to put out the flames. Beer after beer I took turns telling and listening to stories from the past. I was trying to drink away the disappointment and realization that mere hours from then I would be winging my way home.
Not long before the sun was to rise, that knock came at the door. My friends were staring in at me in the wee hours of the morning sitting comfortably with a beer in my hand in a country bar. I could almost pretend for a moment that I didn't mind the music at all. I had accomplished my mission though, I found my comfort zone in the most unlikely of places with the most unlikely people.
AlCantHang is a seasoned Socologist from Phoenixville, PA.
February 25, 2006
The Honey Wagon
By AlCantHang © 2006
I drive the shit truck. The Honey Wagon. I'm a drunk. It's my job and I hate it. The job, not the drink.
I wasn't always this way. I started out enjoying the good life with great potential. No one knew I'd be the most tenured driver on shit detail by the age of 30. I was popular in high school, a certified jock, and the beginning of college was no different. I had a moderate yet accurate fastball which resulted in a decent scholarship at a tiny college. This allowed me to spend plenty of time drinking and mingling with the "pretty" people. It would be great to tell you that my descent to where I am now was caused by something dramatic and shocking. This is no tale of the star athlete who got caught nailing the dean's 16-year old daughter after plastering her with booze and low grade pharmaceuticals.
It was my damned fast ball that landed me on the career path towards portable raw sewage pickup. The accurate left arm that once had me living the good life would soon spend more time lifting a pint of bourbon than delivering any victories.
It was a normal college Friday night. There were more parties than I could chose from and I'd be welcome at each. It wasn't baseball season but I was still a hit at the parties because I was always there and never failed to bring some premium booze and girls.
I grabbed a couple of girls hanging around the apartment and walked to the nearest party. It was still early but I always like to get a head start on the festivities. The atmosphere was still low key just waiting for the burst of post-drinking game craziness. We were standing around bullshitting with the host when the backup catcher walked in the door and changed my life.
The next to last baseball game of the season could have been my ticket to the next level. Our coach was known to do a decent job working with pitchers and occasionally a minor league scout would make an appearance. One showed up during my final start. Unfortunately for me, the backup catcher was playing. Didn't that fucker go and screw up my chance.
Details are unnecessary, just take my word that I wasn't pleased to see him at the party. I was still bitter and my drinking had really ramped up. He never knew what he had done and how it affected me. Why should he care? His rich bitch mother paid for the new turf at the stadium and he'd never have to work a hard day in his life.
"Hey Jack, can you throw me a beer!" Those were the last words he ever uttered without a severe speech impediment.
Everything goes into slow motion and I relive this moment every time I find myself up to my elbows in your shit.
I reached into the keg bucket full of ice and beer cans. Iron City Light, for the record. I picked up a beer, shook off the excess water and turned towards the guy who cost me the best shot at relative fame and fortune and groupies. He was just standing there with an idiotic grin on his face holding out his hands.
Without the slightest thought, and with very little effort, the can fired out of my hand. Straight and true as always. I told the cops later that I accidentally threw the can too hard and too high. That wasn't the truth. I intended to drill that cock smoker right between the eyes.
I can still see that can flying in a perfect line. End over end until the bottom of the can slammed smack in the middle of his forehead. He never got his hands higher than his shoulders. No fancy movie shit where he shakes his head then falls down. No drama. He dropped like a fuckin' rock and things instantly speed back up. He was doing the shimmy shake on the carpet and people started pushing, shoving, hitting, kicking, my ass all over the place. "Asshole!" "Douchebag!" and "Moron!" were my new nicknames.
I was numb and the same thought was repeating itself in my head.
I did the "time" prescribed by the judicial system. I thought maybe the stay would help me sober up. My former backup catcher would never be the same. Mommy and Daddy spent a large chunk of their rotten money to keep him comfortable. Speech therapists and nurses and probably even someone to rub the dribble off his chin. I guess if I cared, I might try to visit or apologize.
But I don't so I don't.
I still have that same thought going through my head occasionally. Especially on the nasty days. The 100 degree Sauna of Shit. Crappers falling over. Even when a former co-worker drowned face down in an over flooded shitter I had the same thought.
"Cock sucker never could catch."
Al Cant Hang is a seasoned Socologist from Phoenixville, PA.
I drive the shit truck. The Honey Wagon. I'm a drunk. It's my job and I hate it. The job, not the drink.
I wasn't always this way. I started out enjoying the good life with great potential. No one knew I'd be the most tenured driver on shit detail by the age of 30. I was popular in high school, a certified jock, and the beginning of college was no different. I had a moderate yet accurate fastball which resulted in a decent scholarship at a tiny college. This allowed me to spend plenty of time drinking and mingling with the "pretty" people. It would be great to tell you that my descent to where I am now was caused by something dramatic and shocking. This is no tale of the star athlete who got caught nailing the dean's 16-year old daughter after plastering her with booze and low grade pharmaceuticals.
It was my damned fast ball that landed me on the career path towards portable raw sewage pickup. The accurate left arm that once had me living the good life would soon spend more time lifting a pint of bourbon than delivering any victories.
It was a normal college Friday night. There were more parties than I could chose from and I'd be welcome at each. It wasn't baseball season but I was still a hit at the parties because I was always there and never failed to bring some premium booze and girls.
I grabbed a couple of girls hanging around the apartment and walked to the nearest party. It was still early but I always like to get a head start on the festivities. The atmosphere was still low key just waiting for the burst of post-drinking game craziness. We were standing around bullshitting with the host when the backup catcher walked in the door and changed my life.
The next to last baseball game of the season could have been my ticket to the next level. Our coach was known to do a decent job working with pitchers and occasionally a minor league scout would make an appearance. One showed up during my final start. Unfortunately for me, the backup catcher was playing. Didn't that fucker go and screw up my chance.
Details are unnecessary, just take my word that I wasn't pleased to see him at the party. I was still bitter and my drinking had really ramped up. He never knew what he had done and how it affected me. Why should he care? His rich bitch mother paid for the new turf at the stadium and he'd never have to work a hard day in his life.
"Hey Jack, can you throw me a beer!" Those were the last words he ever uttered without a severe speech impediment.
Everything goes into slow motion and I relive this moment every time I find myself up to my elbows in your shit.
I reached into the keg bucket full of ice and beer cans. Iron City Light, for the record. I picked up a beer, shook off the excess water and turned towards the guy who cost me the best shot at relative fame and fortune and groupies. He was just standing there with an idiotic grin on his face holding out his hands.
Without the slightest thought, and with very little effort, the can fired out of my hand. Straight and true as always. I told the cops later that I accidentally threw the can too hard and too high. That wasn't the truth. I intended to drill that cock smoker right between the eyes.
I can still see that can flying in a perfect line. End over end until the bottom of the can slammed smack in the middle of his forehead. He never got his hands higher than his shoulders. No fancy movie shit where he shakes his head then falls down. No drama. He dropped like a fuckin' rock and things instantly speed back up. He was doing the shimmy shake on the carpet and people started pushing, shoving, hitting, kicking, my ass all over the place. "Asshole!" "Douchebag!" and "Moron!" were my new nicknames.
I was numb and the same thought was repeating itself in my head.
I did the "time" prescribed by the judicial system. I thought maybe the stay would help me sober up. My former backup catcher would never be the same. Mommy and Daddy spent a large chunk of their rotten money to keep him comfortable. Speech therapists and nurses and probably even someone to rub the dribble off his chin. I guess if I cared, I might try to visit or apologize.
But I don't so I don't.
I still have that same thought going through my head occasionally. Especially on the nasty days. The 100 degree Sauna of Shit. Crappers falling over. Even when a former co-worker drowned face down in an over flooded shitter I had the same thought.
"Cock sucker never could catch."
Al Cant Hang is a seasoned Socologist from Phoenixville, PA.
November 24, 2005
The Shit House
By AlCantHang © 2005
Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jack. I clean shit-houses for a living. Port-a-johns, outhouses, etc. Those tiny plastic shitters you see at campgrounds, concerts, and construction sites. Lovely job. As you may imagine, there are quite a few stories which I could tell but this one is the most important.
I think I recently killed my new co-worker and friend. I'm not saying that I murdered him, but I think my actions led to his demise.
Fat Charlie was neither fat nor was his name Charlie. His name was Bob and he was remarkably skinny. He'd made the mistake when he first joined the crew of trying to give himself his own nickname, like Brutus or Butch or some odd thing. Our drunken foreman decided that Bob's new nickname was Fat Charlie. The foreman was an idiot but he was the boss. I wish I was working with the foreman that fateful day instead of Fat Charlie. But it wouldn't have mattered because I would have been out in the heat instead of him.
Fat Charlie was an oddity amongst our crew. He was young, in shape, and college educated. No one could figure out why Charlie showed up every day to ride beside me from site to site cleaning up crap when he could be sitting in a nice comfy office doing accounting or lawyering or whatever he went to school for. He was tightlipped and we never did find out.
I had the easy part of the job. Being the senior man on shit detail meant that I drove the Honey Wagon while the other guy ran the suction hose from the crapper to the tanker. A good day meant going to a campground during the off-season. It's cool out and they're rarely used. Those days I might even get out of the truck to help. The bad days were in the middle of the summer. Particularly the day after a 100 degree day baseball game in August. The games don't have the same number of drunk tailgaters as the local pro football team, but what the stench lacks in quantity it more than makes up for in quality. Imagine a shit sauna and you have a small clue. Those days you were lucky to get me to acknowledge the outside world as I paid more attention to a dog eared copy of Louis L'Amour and the pint of Jack stuffed between the seats.
Fat Charlie's last day on this earth was one of those bad days.
It wasn't our standard Monday morning. I started the day off easy by hitting the local construction sites that never got much action. The hard part would come that afternoon. The sports complex promised to be ugly. A Sunday baseball game with a heated rival, the first pre-season football game was played across the street, and one of those weird jam bands played the arena. Those freaks would have been in the parking lot all weekend. Who knew what kind of abominations we/he would see.
I'll give Fat Charlie credit. He never did ask for my help. He knew I'd earned the right to sit in the remarkably efficient air conditioning while he siphoned the human rot of a thousand people. The pattern was simple: I would pull up to a group of a dozen units and Charlie would hop out. He would grab the hoses, one for suction and one for cleaning, and start with the first one. My job was easy. Sit in the truck and make sure to move forward occasionally so Charlie had enough hose to do his part. I caught up on the latest masterpiece by Tom Clancy or John Grisham. I was hopeful that the pint of booze would last until the end of the day. If not, there was always the other two stashed in different spots.
Charlie gave a yell to move forward so then next unit could be handled and this is where I made my mistake. I was a little slow for a night of partying and the hair-of-the-dog might have dulled my senses. The clutch was tricky and the truck jerked forward a little harder then normal. I could hear the john move along the pavement and I had an instant sense of horror. I looked in the mirror and was relieved to see it still standing upright. Nothing can ruin a week like knocked one of those things over.
I went back to reading Clancy explain the intricacies of a nuclear explosion in 2,000 words and lost track of time. Finally I realized it had been quite a while since Fat Charlie had asked me to move forward. Not completely unexpected you see. Sometimes they fight back. After yelling his name a couple of times, I hopped out of the cab to check on my friend and co-worker.
There was a reason I couldn't hear Fat Charlie scream as the jerk of the truck caught him between the hoses and overflowing shitter. To this day they've never been able to explain how a human could end up in that position and the official cause of death, drowning, was too horrible to think about.
I made a silent promise to my friend that day. No more drinking.
At least on the job.
Al Cant Hang is an internet celebrity from Phoenixville, PA.
Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jack. I clean shit-houses for a living. Port-a-johns, outhouses, etc. Those tiny plastic shitters you see at campgrounds, concerts, and construction sites. Lovely job. As you may imagine, there are quite a few stories which I could tell but this one is the most important.
I think I recently killed my new co-worker and friend. I'm not saying that I murdered him, but I think my actions led to his demise.
Fat Charlie was neither fat nor was his name Charlie. His name was Bob and he was remarkably skinny. He'd made the mistake when he first joined the crew of trying to give himself his own nickname, like Brutus or Butch or some odd thing. Our drunken foreman decided that Bob's new nickname was Fat Charlie. The foreman was an idiot but he was the boss. I wish I was working with the foreman that fateful day instead of Fat Charlie. But it wouldn't have mattered because I would have been out in the heat instead of him.
Fat Charlie was an oddity amongst our crew. He was young, in shape, and college educated. No one could figure out why Charlie showed up every day to ride beside me from site to site cleaning up crap when he could be sitting in a nice comfy office doing accounting or lawyering or whatever he went to school for. He was tightlipped and we never did find out.
I had the easy part of the job. Being the senior man on shit detail meant that I drove the Honey Wagon while the other guy ran the suction hose from the crapper to the tanker. A good day meant going to a campground during the off-season. It's cool out and they're rarely used. Those days I might even get out of the truck to help. The bad days were in the middle of the summer. Particularly the day after a 100 degree day baseball game in August. The games don't have the same number of drunk tailgaters as the local pro football team, but what the stench lacks in quantity it more than makes up for in quality. Imagine a shit sauna and you have a small clue. Those days you were lucky to get me to acknowledge the outside world as I paid more attention to a dog eared copy of Louis L'Amour and the pint of Jack stuffed between the seats.
Fat Charlie's last day on this earth was one of those bad days.
It wasn't our standard Monday morning. I started the day off easy by hitting the local construction sites that never got much action. The hard part would come that afternoon. The sports complex promised to be ugly. A Sunday baseball game with a heated rival, the first pre-season football game was played across the street, and one of those weird jam bands played the arena. Those freaks would have been in the parking lot all weekend. Who knew what kind of abominations we/he would see.
I'll give Fat Charlie credit. He never did ask for my help. He knew I'd earned the right to sit in the remarkably efficient air conditioning while he siphoned the human rot of a thousand people. The pattern was simple: I would pull up to a group of a dozen units and Charlie would hop out. He would grab the hoses, one for suction and one for cleaning, and start with the first one. My job was easy. Sit in the truck and make sure to move forward occasionally so Charlie had enough hose to do his part. I caught up on the latest masterpiece by Tom Clancy or John Grisham. I was hopeful that the pint of booze would last until the end of the day. If not, there was always the other two stashed in different spots.
Charlie gave a yell to move forward so then next unit could be handled and this is where I made my mistake. I was a little slow for a night of partying and the hair-of-the-dog might have dulled my senses. The clutch was tricky and the truck jerked forward a little harder then normal. I could hear the john move along the pavement and I had an instant sense of horror. I looked in the mirror and was relieved to see it still standing upright. Nothing can ruin a week like knocked one of those things over.
I went back to reading Clancy explain the intricacies of a nuclear explosion in 2,000 words and lost track of time. Finally I realized it had been quite a while since Fat Charlie had asked me to move forward. Not completely unexpected you see. Sometimes they fight back. After yelling his name a couple of times, I hopped out of the cab to check on my friend and co-worker.
There was a reason I couldn't hear Fat Charlie scream as the jerk of the truck caught him between the hoses and overflowing shitter. To this day they've never been able to explain how a human could end up in that position and the official cause of death, drowning, was too horrible to think about.
I made a silent promise to my friend that day. No more drinking.
At least on the job.
Al Cant Hang is an internet celebrity from Phoenixville, PA.
July 20, 2004
Stories from the Bar: Almost Stood Up
By AlCantHang © 2004
"How long do I have to wait before I'm officially stood up?"
I was speaking to my latest bartender/confessor as he poured my third double. He shook his head and put the bottle back in the rack.
"How long have you been waiting?"
"Nearly 40 minutes."
"If she's not here in five, the next one is on me."
I had met this young cutie at a company function the week before. We had set a date for the following Friday and now I was beginning to wonder if she was going to show. We were both drinking heavily that night and she might not have remembered. I wasn't getting too anxious. It wouldn't be the first time I had been stood up.
Almost exactly five minutes later, she rushed in the front door of the bar. Apologies and explanations were pouring forth as she took her seat at the bar. None of this was really moving me because I was three doubles in and completely relieved that she even showed up.
When she finished her explanation, I called the bartender over and spoke two simple words that would change everything.
"Penalty shot!"
She looked confused and I just smiled along with the bartender. When I asked for her preferred liquor of choice, it finally hit her.
"Double Rumpleminz, sir. Her penalty shot."
The beautiful young woman just looked at me and said plainly, "This is going to be an interesting evening."
As we finished our drinks, we made easy conversation and made our plans for the evening. A friend's band was playing down the block and we decided it would be a good time. After dinner and more drinks we took a nice stroll down to the next bar.
We walked into the bar and immediately ran into my friend Tim. When we walked over to greet him, she seemed very surprised that we were well acquainted. He joined us at a table and the drinks flowed once more.
Here's a little trick that I found that girls use. They will occasionally invite a friend along on the sly as a cover if the date goes bad. What really screwed it up for her was that I knew Tim longer than she had.
The drinks were coming nonstop, the conversation was deteriorating, and my date was becoming visibly intoxicated. It culminated with her coming over to me sitting on my barstool, climbing me like a sequoia, and planting a big, soul-sucking kiss.
"I have to go powder my nose," she whispered in my ear.
Two thumbs up from Tim after she walked away and I made my way for the facilities also. When I returned, I found her walking towards the front door with her jacket on.
What the fuck?
I caught up to her and realized the problem. She was completely obliterated and was in obvious need of getting the fuck out of dodge. The lovely girl apologized for the second time that evening and asked me if I'd walk her home.
Absolutely.
The three blocks to her house, we were more holding each other up then walking with each other. Arms around each other, thumbs locked into the other's belt loops, leaning on the other to keep from staggering too much.
"Would you like to come in for awhile?"
Hell yeah.
She was drunk but was also young, beautiful, and way out of my league. We walked into her bedroom and she left me sitting on the bed alone for awhile. When she returned from the bathroom, she stood in front me, bent down, and laid another one of those knockout lip locks.
She whispered one more time, "You've got to go."
Stunned, I walked out of the apartment having no idea what I had done wrong. As I began the useless three-hour drunken search for my car, I heard the faint, yet distinct, sounds of my new beloved losing her cookies in a violent manner.
I smiled and walked on. This one was a keeper.
That was my first date with the beautiful woman who would later become Mrs. Can't Hang.
Al Can't Hang is a gentleman and a seasoned SoCo-ologist from Phoenixville, PA.
"How long do I have to wait before I'm officially stood up?"
I was speaking to my latest bartender/confessor as he poured my third double. He shook his head and put the bottle back in the rack.
"How long have you been waiting?"
"Nearly 40 minutes."
"If she's not here in five, the next one is on me."
I had met this young cutie at a company function the week before. We had set a date for the following Friday and now I was beginning to wonder if she was going to show. We were both drinking heavily that night and she might not have remembered. I wasn't getting too anxious. It wouldn't be the first time I had been stood up.
Almost exactly five minutes later, she rushed in the front door of the bar. Apologies and explanations were pouring forth as she took her seat at the bar. None of this was really moving me because I was three doubles in and completely relieved that she even showed up.
When she finished her explanation, I called the bartender over and spoke two simple words that would change everything.
"Penalty shot!"
She looked confused and I just smiled along with the bartender. When I asked for her preferred liquor of choice, it finally hit her.
"Double Rumpleminz, sir. Her penalty shot."
The beautiful young woman just looked at me and said plainly, "This is going to be an interesting evening."
As we finished our drinks, we made easy conversation and made our plans for the evening. A friend's band was playing down the block and we decided it would be a good time. After dinner and more drinks we took a nice stroll down to the next bar.
We walked into the bar and immediately ran into my friend Tim. When we walked over to greet him, she seemed very surprised that we were well acquainted. He joined us at a table and the drinks flowed once more.
Here's a little trick that I found that girls use. They will occasionally invite a friend along on the sly as a cover if the date goes bad. What really screwed it up for her was that I knew Tim longer than she had.
The drinks were coming nonstop, the conversation was deteriorating, and my date was becoming visibly intoxicated. It culminated with her coming over to me sitting on my barstool, climbing me like a sequoia, and planting a big, soul-sucking kiss.
"I have to go powder my nose," she whispered in my ear.
Two thumbs up from Tim after she walked away and I made my way for the facilities also. When I returned, I found her walking towards the front door with her jacket on.
What the fuck?
I caught up to her and realized the problem. She was completely obliterated and was in obvious need of getting the fuck out of dodge. The lovely girl apologized for the second time that evening and asked me if I'd walk her home.
Absolutely.
The three blocks to her house, we were more holding each other up then walking with each other. Arms around each other, thumbs locked into the other's belt loops, leaning on the other to keep from staggering too much.
"Would you like to come in for awhile?"
Hell yeah.
She was drunk but was also young, beautiful, and way out of my league. We walked into her bedroom and she left me sitting on the bed alone for awhile. When she returned from the bathroom, she stood in front me, bent down, and laid another one of those knockout lip locks.
She whispered one more time, "You've got to go."
Stunned, I walked out of the apartment having no idea what I had done wrong. As I began the useless three-hour drunken search for my car, I heard the faint, yet distinct, sounds of my new beloved losing her cookies in a violent manner.
I smiled and walked on. This one was a keeper.
That was my first date with the beautiful woman who would later become Mrs. Can't Hang.
Al Can't Hang is a gentleman and a seasoned SoCo-ologist from Phoenixville, PA.
June 16, 2004
Stories from the Bar: Road Trippin' with the Band
By AlCantHang © 2004
"Jesus Christ, FatAss, look at the rack on that girl."
There was a broken down van and another car on the side of the highway. She was sitting on the trunk of the car in a bikini.
"Shit Al, she's not a girl, that's fuckin' Kenna."
And that is how the worst road trip began. Making a day run with a band from Philly to play somewhere south of Baltimore. The band with the coolest un-bookable, name in history.
What kind of bar manager is going to put SPOOGE on the their marquee?
The van left hours before us, yet there it was sitting on the right side of I-95. We were four lanes to the left doing Mach2. Two hours and one roll of duct tape later, the caravan slowly resumed the trek south. We still hit the bar a ridiculous six hours early for setup.
This was a very important show for the band. New bar, new town and more importantly, a new booking agent. They had worn out their welcome at every level of bar at the Jersey shore and a clean-slate in a new area were needed. Tonight would be the tryout.
The place was open but empty. We immediately met the bar manager and hit it right off. He was happy the entire band was there early, we were happy because he put shot glasses on the bar before we moved the first piece of equipment. We loaded everything in the bar, and loaded ourselves up with free booze and food.
After a few hours and a few too many shots, everyone hit the hotel for some relaxing before the big show. Everyone was keyed up and ready to put on a good performance and break into the Baltimore / DC area with a statement.
Later that evening, it was time to get everyone moving and back to the bar. Not the easiest task when you're dealing with five drunks with hangovers at 8 PM. The manager put everyone right when the shots started pouring as we walked back in.
Somewhere along this time, I start to envision the country bar scene in The Blues Brothers. Where the bar tab is greater than the night's pay.
The band was scheduled for three sets starting at 10:30 and ending at 2 AM. Sets one and two went off without a hitch. The band was on fire, hitting every note and mark like true professionals. The place was packed, everyone was dancing, and the manager was happy. So happy that he continued to fulfill every liquid craving of anyone associated with the band. Which happened to include the wives and girlfriends.
The first sign of a potential problem began between the last two sets. Two of the wives had gone off on the side for a talk. Both girls were somewhat high strung and the booze had ramped them up to obscene levels. During the third set, neither was dancing nor drinking nor making any sort of merriment. They were just sitting and talking.
The last song of the encore, the apex of a great evening, ended to a great ovation and the sounds of a struggle. The conversation had obviously degraded. Drinks were thrown, tables upset, bouncers called. The girls were hustled out of the bar only moments before the apocalyptic hair pulling began.
My job, up until that point, had been to make sure the band was on time, on stage, and properly boozed up. Now I would have to handle the sparing divas. Two things needed to be done. I had to keep them from smashing each other and, more importantly, keep them both out of jail.
The band was oblivious. They were still breaking down equipment. As the girls began to simmer down, one was sent back inside the bar to calm down, the other sent on a walk. Calm was returning the small town.
That's when the band members found out. The bar was closed, everyone was outside except for the band. I was sitting at the bar with FatAss, doing some shots, and waiting for the night's pay when we then heard some shouts from the street. When we turned and looked through the big glass front window, we saw two members locked up getting ready to rumble. I immediately hopped from my stool and headed into the storm. FatAss Bob turned back around and ordered another shot.
It took an incredibly long time to calm this fracas down. Four band members, a large crowd of bar patrons, and Al Can't Hang scuffling in the streets. I was alternating between peace maker, offensive lineman, and paramedic to intoxicated, hyped up, aggressive musicians. The end of the fight occurred when I turned around to find the lead singer, far stronger and bigger than myself, with his fist raised ready to knock my lights out.
I quickly stuck my finger in his face and, in my most threatening voice, asked him, "Do you REALLY want to do that?"
I am not sure to this day whether it was the tone of my voice or the unflinching look on my face that made him back down. More likely the fact that I was his benefactor and spent more money on his booze then he spent on his child support.
You could see him wilt as the menace left his body. I told him to take a walk and come back in an hour while I cleaned up the mess. The crowd was disbursed and limbs were re-socketed. I looked back inside. There was FatAss Bob, just sitting at the bar, never moving an inch except to take another drink or smoke another cigarette.
He lifted his shotglass and mouthed the words, "Good job."
Al Can't Hang is a gentleman and a seasoned SoCo-ologist from Phoenixville, PA.
"Jesus Christ, FatAss, look at the rack on that girl."
There was a broken down van and another car on the side of the highway. She was sitting on the trunk of the car in a bikini.
"Shit Al, she's not a girl, that's fuckin' Kenna."
And that is how the worst road trip began. Making a day run with a band from Philly to play somewhere south of Baltimore. The band with the coolest un-bookable, name in history.
What kind of bar manager is going to put SPOOGE on the their marquee?
The van left hours before us, yet there it was sitting on the right side of I-95. We were four lanes to the left doing Mach2. Two hours and one roll of duct tape later, the caravan slowly resumed the trek south. We still hit the bar a ridiculous six hours early for setup.
This was a very important show for the band. New bar, new town and more importantly, a new booking agent. They had worn out their welcome at every level of bar at the Jersey shore and a clean-slate in a new area were needed. Tonight would be the tryout.
The place was open but empty. We immediately met the bar manager and hit it right off. He was happy the entire band was there early, we were happy because he put shot glasses on the bar before we moved the first piece of equipment. We loaded everything in the bar, and loaded ourselves up with free booze and food.
After a few hours and a few too many shots, everyone hit the hotel for some relaxing before the big show. Everyone was keyed up and ready to put on a good performance and break into the Baltimore / DC area with a statement.
Later that evening, it was time to get everyone moving and back to the bar. Not the easiest task when you're dealing with five drunks with hangovers at 8 PM. The manager put everyone right when the shots started pouring as we walked back in.
Somewhere along this time, I start to envision the country bar scene in The Blues Brothers. Where the bar tab is greater than the night's pay.
The band was scheduled for three sets starting at 10:30 and ending at 2 AM. Sets one and two went off without a hitch. The band was on fire, hitting every note and mark like true professionals. The place was packed, everyone was dancing, and the manager was happy. So happy that he continued to fulfill every liquid craving of anyone associated with the band. Which happened to include the wives and girlfriends.
The first sign of a potential problem began between the last two sets. Two of the wives had gone off on the side for a talk. Both girls were somewhat high strung and the booze had ramped them up to obscene levels. During the third set, neither was dancing nor drinking nor making any sort of merriment. They were just sitting and talking.
The last song of the encore, the apex of a great evening, ended to a great ovation and the sounds of a struggle. The conversation had obviously degraded. Drinks were thrown, tables upset, bouncers called. The girls were hustled out of the bar only moments before the apocalyptic hair pulling began.
My job, up until that point, had been to make sure the band was on time, on stage, and properly boozed up. Now I would have to handle the sparing divas. Two things needed to be done. I had to keep them from smashing each other and, more importantly, keep them both out of jail.
The band was oblivious. They were still breaking down equipment. As the girls began to simmer down, one was sent back inside the bar to calm down, the other sent on a walk. Calm was returning the small town.
That's when the band members found out. The bar was closed, everyone was outside except for the band. I was sitting at the bar with FatAss, doing some shots, and waiting for the night's pay when we then heard some shouts from the street. When we turned and looked through the big glass front window, we saw two members locked up getting ready to rumble. I immediately hopped from my stool and headed into the storm. FatAss Bob turned back around and ordered another shot.
It took an incredibly long time to calm this fracas down. Four band members, a large crowd of bar patrons, and Al Can't Hang scuffling in the streets. I was alternating between peace maker, offensive lineman, and paramedic to intoxicated, hyped up, aggressive musicians. The end of the fight occurred when I turned around to find the lead singer, far stronger and bigger than myself, with his fist raised ready to knock my lights out.
I quickly stuck my finger in his face and, in my most threatening voice, asked him, "Do you REALLY want to do that?"
I am not sure to this day whether it was the tone of my voice or the unflinching look on my face that made him back down. More likely the fact that I was his benefactor and spent more money on his booze then he spent on his child support.
You could see him wilt as the menace left his body. I told him to take a walk and come back in an hour while I cleaned up the mess. The crowd was disbursed and limbs were re-socketed. I looked back inside. There was FatAss Bob, just sitting at the bar, never moving an inch except to take another drink or smoke another cigarette.
He lifted his shotglass and mouthed the words, "Good job."
Al Can't Hang is a gentleman and a seasoned SoCo-ologist from Phoenixville, PA.
May 22, 2004
Stories from the Bar: Origins
By AlCantHang © 2004
The first thing I remember after coming out of the coma was the image of my parents looking down at me. It was obvious that I was in a hospital room and that my parents were very concerned. My mind started working quickly to backtrack through my recent memories.
Ok, ok. You were at the bar. What next? Car wreck? Did I get in a fight? Sucker punched? Fuck, I can't really feel anything. Is that good or bad?
I had to ask. "What happened to me?"
My mother recalled "They found you in an unused bathroom passed out." Then very quietly, "But it was the blood that really scared everyone. Not the vomit."
Shit, that's really not good. I'm never drinking Southern again.
Another memory.
I was looking up at two men in strange outfits. I knew the uniforms but couldn't place them. They were asking for my name, address, and if I was hurt anywhere.
Ah, now I got it. Paramedics. Two things went through my head in that split second. Man, this can't be good. And I could hear the shrilling voice of a shrew harpy I knew. As I was fading back to darkness, I yelled at the top of my feeble voice, "Tell her to shut the fuck up!"
That would be the last time I saw her.
Time for some damage control. Being from a strict, religious family, I'd managed to hide my drinking from them for years. I still have no specific idea of what happened but I knew already that I needed to spin this correctly.
"I think it was that leftover cheese steak in the fridge," I said in a hopefully clear, sober voice, "it must have gone bad."
My old man looked at me, seemingly convinced, and said he'd have the doctor check for food poisoning when she came back.
Bingo, I've still got it. Laid up, half passed out, no idea what's going on and I managed to pass this episode off as food poisoning. But what the fuck happened to me?
My memory dump would have to wait. The nurse informed us that several people in the waiting room want to make sure I was alive. "But only two visitors at a time", screeched Nurse Ratched with the bitched-up face, "One of you will have to leave."
Since I was in no condition to volunteer, what with drifting in and out of consciousness the entire time, the old man got up. He left me with my mother to greet the parade of circus freaks that I called friends.
The drunk and stoned. The pierced and tattooed.
The over-sexed, barely-dressed, self-professed tramps were my favorites to introduce. Then the obviously drunk rock stars who had come straight from the show. Apparently they've written a new song about me.
That's right! I went out to see the band at some new bar. Oh man, I saw a shit load of old friends there. This might really be serious.
Finally the old man came back into the room followed by the doctor. I'm about to fade to black again. Immediately, I can read the look on my father's face. Food poisoning, my ass.
The look is explained by the doctor as I'm drifting off. "Congratulations on being alive Mr. Dumbass", the name has been changed to protect the moron, "Most people with a blood alcohol level of 0.46 are usually in the basement by now"
My last thought of the day........ Man, this is going to be a bitch of a hangover!
My name is Al...
And I can't hang.
Al Can't Hang is a gentleman and a seasoned SoCo-ologist from Phoenixville, PA.
The first thing I remember after coming out of the coma was the image of my parents looking down at me. It was obvious that I was in a hospital room and that my parents were very concerned. My mind started working quickly to backtrack through my recent memories.
Ok, ok. You were at the bar. What next? Car wreck? Did I get in a fight? Sucker punched? Fuck, I can't really feel anything. Is that good or bad?
I had to ask. "What happened to me?"
My mother recalled "They found you in an unused bathroom passed out." Then very quietly, "But it was the blood that really scared everyone. Not the vomit."
Shit, that's really not good. I'm never drinking Southern again.
Another memory.
I was looking up at two men in strange outfits. I knew the uniforms but couldn't place them. They were asking for my name, address, and if I was hurt anywhere.
Ah, now I got it. Paramedics. Two things went through my head in that split second. Man, this can't be good. And I could hear the shrilling voice of a shrew harpy I knew. As I was fading back to darkness, I yelled at the top of my feeble voice, "Tell her to shut the fuck up!"
That would be the last time I saw her.
Time for some damage control. Being from a strict, religious family, I'd managed to hide my drinking from them for years. I still have no specific idea of what happened but I knew already that I needed to spin this correctly.
"I think it was that leftover cheese steak in the fridge," I said in a hopefully clear, sober voice, "it must have gone bad."
My old man looked at me, seemingly convinced, and said he'd have the doctor check for food poisoning when she came back.
Bingo, I've still got it. Laid up, half passed out, no idea what's going on and I managed to pass this episode off as food poisoning. But what the fuck happened to me?
My memory dump would have to wait. The nurse informed us that several people in the waiting room want to make sure I was alive. "But only two visitors at a time", screeched Nurse Ratched with the bitched-up face, "One of you will have to leave."
Since I was in no condition to volunteer, what with drifting in and out of consciousness the entire time, the old man got up. He left me with my mother to greet the parade of circus freaks that I called friends.
The drunk and stoned. The pierced and tattooed.
The over-sexed, barely-dressed, self-professed tramps were my favorites to introduce. Then the obviously drunk rock stars who had come straight from the show. Apparently they've written a new song about me.
That's right! I went out to see the band at some new bar. Oh man, I saw a shit load of old friends there. This might really be serious.
Finally the old man came back into the room followed by the doctor. I'm about to fade to black again. Immediately, I can read the look on my father's face. Food poisoning, my ass.
The look is explained by the doctor as I'm drifting off. "Congratulations on being alive Mr. Dumbass", the name has been changed to protect the moron, "Most people with a blood alcohol level of 0.46 are usually in the basement by now"
My last thought of the day........ Man, this is going to be a bitch of a hangover!
My name is Al...
And I can't hang.
Al Can't Hang is a gentleman and a seasoned SoCo-ologist from Phoenixville, PA.
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