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The Drunkest Man That Has Ever Been

The drunkest man in history paid me a visit last night.

I was wary about letting him in, but curiosity overtook me as I became skeptical that he was indeed as drunk as he claimed.

Let me tell you something, dear reader: This was the drunkest man that has ever been.

I put on some music and we sat at the kitchen table for a chat.

“So tell me, how did you get so drunk?”

“Ah. Well, I started drinking Sunday, and then when it came time to stop and sleep, I did neither.”

“Fair enough.” I offered him a beer, which brought a smile to his face, and then a pondering examination of the can.

“You know what they should make?” he asked.


“They should make 10 ounce beers.”

“Huh? Why?”

“Well, say you wanted two fewer ounces—”

“With all due respect, sir, you are unbelievably drunk, and that is the stupidest idea I have ever heard.”

“I just think there should be an option. Why should all beers be 12 ounces?”

“I agree that variety in beer size would be a fine thing, but why default to 10? That’s only slightly smaller, and grossly impractical.”

“Well, say you wanted two fewer ounces—”

“Sir! Listen to me and listen carefully, you drunkard. You might make a profit, but your entire market would be people who thought they were buying 12 ounce beers. They would take their slightly smaller beers home from the store, then say, ‘Dang, I didn’t mean to get the tiny ones.’”

“Not true.”

“Yes true. It would be like if Milky Way made one flavor of candy bar with caramel, chocolate, and nougat, and then another with caramel, chocolate, nougat, and shit. Sure they would sell a few now and again, but only to people who would later say, ‘Damn it, I didn’t mean to get this shit kind.”

“I have lots of good ideas,” he said, to my aggravation.

“I say it again, sir, you are drunk. Quite drunk. I’m not sure I want to hear any more of your ideas.”

“Well, I was just thinking about how there should be more love in the world,” said the drunkest man on Earth.

“I certainly agree with that.”

“And, perhaps we should designate a holiday for love. Once a year we will all write cards to the people we like, and perhaps take our lovers out on a date.”

I almost vomited at this man’s drunkenness.

“There is no goddamn way you’re being serious right now. You honestly think we need a holiday to remind ourselves to love the people we love? How offensive. How condescending. What’s next, Don’t Eat Poison Day? And you think we all would want to team up and do it on the same day? No, you’re drunk. Think of how awful that would be, man. Think of how painful it would be trying to get a dinner reservation. Think of the anguish this would put on single people, and how impractical it would be that people needed to coordinate their romances around this idiocy. You need to stop drinking, good sir, or you will die very soon.”

I threw a spoon at him. He walked around the table and punched me very hard in the mouth. I pulled him toward me and bit his stomach as he punched my head.

“Let’s not do this anymore, friend.”

“Good plan.”

We chatted a while more about life and art, but as is often the case, things got ugly when politics arose.

“Do you know what should be illegal?” asked the most inebriated thing in 13.72 billion years of existence.

“What?” I clenched my fists, anticipating rage.

“It should be illegal to be naked in public. People should be arrested if they don’t wear clothes outside.”

I took a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to fight this gentleman.

“I’m certain I need not remind you,” I began through my teeth, “that you are tremendously drunk. I have never met a man as drunk as you. In fact, no one has. So I want to forgive that last comment, but not without a rebuttal. You do realize, fine sir, that if legislation were passed outlawing public nudity, there would be violent rioting in all cities of this nation. Every single piece of government property would be set aflame by the furious masses who know that said law is a direct, tyrannical violation of their right to be. What you just suggested does not even make sense. I am overcome with bewilderment that anybody could say something so odd.”

“I just think it’s unwholesome.”

We fought. We fought for hours. Halfway through our battle I managed to crawl across the wreckage of my home and latch the front door. I didn’t want anyone to come in and stop our fight. I am typing this on a keyboard splashed with blood and vomit.

The drunkest man in history left at dawn. He was still quite drunk.


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A Gynecologist Takes the Rorschach Test

Psychiatrist: And what do you see here?
Gynecologist: A vagina.
Psychiatrist: Hmmm… And how about here, what do you see?
Gynecologist: A vagina.
Psychiatrist: Interesting… And in this one?
Gynecologist: Well, I’m certain that’s a vagina. It’s a photograph of a vagina.
Psychiatrist: Yes, it’s my vagina. Is there anything wrong with it?
Gynecologist: It looks pretty good to me.
Psychiatrist: No, come on. Take a closer look. I’m worried about it.
Gynecologist: Hey, buddy, I’m not on duty right now.
Psychiatrist: Come on, man. Analyze my vagina and I’ll give a mental diagnosis on the house. Quid pro quo.
Gynecologist: Hmmm… OK, well, I can tell right off the bat that you probably have a higher than average testosterone level. There are a few things I notice that indicate it, but there’s really nothing to worry about. Other than that everything looks fine.
Psychiatrist: Oh, I have high testosterone now? You think I’m manly?
Gynecologist: That’s not what I’m saying. It’s really nothing to worry about. Just —
Psychiatrist: Well, here’s your diagnosis: You’re a dickhead. How’s that?
Gynecologist: Hey, no I’m not! I’m a doctor, damn it.
Psychiatrist: A doctor of judgment!
Gynecologist: Look, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s a common condition, and there’s nothing wrong with you.
Psychiatrist: OK, sure, whatever… Can we carry on?
Gynecologist: You tell me.
Psychiatrist: Let’s focus. So what do you see in this one?
Gynecologist: Don’t show me that, I’m not a proctologist.
Psychiatrist: It’s your face! Hahahahahahaha!
Gynecologist: Hey! I’m sorry, OK? Let’s try to be mature. Stop showing me your junk.
Psychiatrist: I am this close to kicking the shit out of you.
Gynecologist: You’re a wuss.

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