http://www.thephatphree.com/features.asp?StoryID=2149&SectionID=11


I'm concerned. I've been on a good ole fashioned binge of late. Yet this morning I feel spectacular. No really, I swear I do. Was practically skipping out of my apartment on the way to work. And I'm not a major league pitcher or catcher about to report to spring training, nor am I Hugh Hefner about to report to... well, being Hugh Hefner. My insignificant "career" for which I'm paid is nowhere near that exciting.

Following night after night of excessive drinking, I was teetering on the brink of exhaustion and fighting off a nervous breakdown. I had dark bags under my eyes reminiscent of Glass Joe in Mike Tyson's Punchout. Most of the day was spent smelling my fermenting self involuntarily.

But not today. Why? Because I'm in the Booze Zone.

What's the Booze Zone, you ask? It's another dimension, one in which you achieve a blissful state of drunken perpetuity, induced by consecutive nights of alcohol consumption.

You still look as if you're well on your way to a dirt nap, but now you're just not cognizant of it. It's tough to explain. Kind of like how Coca-Cola tastes way fucking better out of those cool little glass bottles, rather than out of a can. Maybe it's because you feel bigger than George Muresan holding the tiny bottle in your hand. Or maybe it's because I'm retarded.

Either way, we should get back to the Booze Zone. How do you know when you're in it? Because...

-You look like Keith Richards and smell like a whino, but act as if you're Pierce Brosnan. You have a good Denzel strut goin' on too. Fuckin' playah.

-You order a greasy omelet with hash browns from the gross company and/or school cafeteria. When the illegal alien who's playing a chef, asks if you'd like one or two hashers, you practically blurt out "TWO!" in a response so rapid it's uncomfortable even for the fat Atkins bastards salivating for their sausage links behind you in line.

-Your hands aren't trembling like Tom Hanks' in Saving Private Ryan, despite the fact you finished your 14th Silver Bullet less than six hours ago.

-You walk into work and/or class and light up the the first four people you see with the obnoxious and cheesy six gun / wink combo.

(Editor's Note: McCoy is notorious for being a surly and miserable prick in the morning, so this may be more relevant to him than you, but you get the picture.)

-You get hard-ons repeatedly throughout the day at awkward moments, reminiscent of sophomore year in high school. For the ladies, you feel as if you're sidled up on the back of a purring Ducati.

-You will email and call ANYONE you can think of just because you feel like it.

-You're already planning your night out while still dripping wet and borderline comatose after your morning splash closet session with the Irish Spring.


Don't think. Just drink.
-Unlike most typical states of hangover disrepair, where you struggle with even single consonant words, you're now an eloquent motherfucker: weaving beautiful tapestries of intellectual pontification not heard since this country's great debates of the 1800s. You have the Golden Tongue.

-Nagging emails from your Little Lady no longer cause you to chuck your wireless mouse off your cubicle neighbor's forehead and scream "Jesus Christ! Women are fucking lunatics! Sorry everybody, that was insensitive. (whisper to self) But they are. Bitches man. Bitches."

-Guilt is buried in his rack under the feathers, emerging only to hit the snooze button.

Probably the most important thing regarding the Booze Zone is how to stay in it. Prolonging your visit to this state of nirvana is tricky business. Associated risks of alcoholism and cirrhosis dangers aside, of course. I have to warn you though, it's not easy. Oftentimes, it's as baffling to me as to how my parents managed to conceive me - because it's a widely accepted fact that my parents have never had sex.

The key to staying in the "BZ" is a delicate balance between social and power drinking.

(Twenty-Second Timeout: According to the web site for Alcohol and Drug Information, the exact definition of a binge drinker is "someone who drank five or more drinks, on the same occasion, on at least one day in the past 30." Yeah, okay. Therefore, I've chosen to eschew the popularized term "binge drinking" because, by definition, EVERYONE is a binge drinker.)

Achieving and sustaining the delicate balance that is the Booze Zone is extremely difficult. I've found the following recipe to work divinely:

1. Consuming big, greasy sustenance for breakfast and dinner is a no-brainer and a well-adopted approach. Where I blaze a new path is suggesting that you preferably have sex for lunch. But unless you have a rub-and-tug nearby or a really dirty co-worker and/or classmate, this could be tough to achieve. Therefore, really exuberant late-night humping, replete with filthy dirty talking, is the suggested substitute.

2. Shots are prohibited. This is non-negotiable. If someone buys you one, dump it on the floor while they watch in horror. And stick to one type of drink, and one drink only. Whether it be beer, vodka sodas, or Bacardi Silver if you're gay. Whatever. Consistency is the key.

3. No more than six hours sleep. Anything more than that and your body gets lazy and falls into a state of inertia and self-awareness. This is when the "skymptoms" set in and you get panic attacks.

4. Always have something going on. Never let your mind and/or body stop to think about what you're doing to it. This reverts back to the planning your next night out while you're still in your towel that morning. Perpetual social motion. Swear by it.

5. Come Monday and Tuesday, take your pain. I'm a realist and accept that the Booze Zone can't be sustained forever. Therefore, it's best to pay the piper on the two most depressing days of the week.


There's no God. Only booze.
6. Never look at your ATM receipt. When withdrawing money, I suggest you glance at it, then crumple it up and smirk cocky-like to those around you as if you're the richest man on earth.

7. Quit any and all religion.