Cheap vodka is a relative term. In the sense that if you drink enough, it doesn't matter how much the spirit cost, the next morning you're still going to wake up feeling more used than a whore on dollar day.
If only foresight were as clear as it's backward looking counterpart, I would never get myself in the kinds of situations I get myself into. Friday night reared its ugly head and I gave in to temptation. I bought a handle of 100 proof bottom shelf vodka. I splurged and got one step above Vladimir Vodka. Which isn't saying much considering both run at around half the price of the average spirit.
Economics teaches us that we get what we pay for, or at least we hope that we get what we pay for. In terms of "the most bang for your buck," I'm willing to put cheap vodka right up there with anything you can get in the dollar store. That being said, the analogy seems a lot more apt than it first seemed. When I buy something from the dollar store, I always expect it to be half broke or have some weird disfigurement hidden away behind the wrapper. When I unfurl that halfbreed of a whatever it is I buy at the dollar store, I always wince when opening it. Because, I, like most people, fear that which is too easy to come by. And in walks cheap vodka.
That kind of rip-roaring drunk is just way too easy to come by. When I drink cheap vodka, I'm always extra cautious. I stand in the store before I buy it and read and re-read the fine print on the bottle, half expecting there to be a clause about how purchasing the bottle will result in anal rapage. Certainly the last couple times I've done that it FELT like I was raped in the asshole, raw-dog like. No lube. And at the end of my coital adventure I got the old donkey punch. Not that I would know what that feels like, but I have an imagination and a dirty mind. Anal sex and donkey punches about sum up how I feel towards cheap vodka. I could go on to explain why that sums up my feelings, but I feel that it's better left up to the imagination.
Drinking my cheap vodka, mixed with gatorade (in the hopes that this will somehow protect me from the death grip that devil juice will have on me the next morning) I get all intellectual. Like some sort of fucked up world that cheap vodka isn't going to turn me into a baby. Slurring, drooling and shitting all over the place. This time would be different, cheap vodka had no hold on me. The gatorade was acting like a shield, in my mind. It was as if by magic, I was making witty commentary on everything in the 12'x12' world of mine that night. The visitors were impressed with the rapist's wit and the roommates were happy that vomit or any other type of bodily excretions were as yet uninvolved. Life was good.
The next morning, I awoke with nothing more than a dry mouth. Ah, the sweet smell of victory. I beat it. I was better than cheap vodka. I fucked that whore and made the dash for the door while she was passed out and unawares.
This needed to be repeated. Refilling my supply, I picked up another bottle from the local death deal-ery where satan's kool-aid is purchased and found a veritable rainbow of accessories to drink with. From orange juice to gatorade (my friend in arms from the night prior) and I even got one of those coffee drinks with all the gusto that I had found a cheap version of the White Russian.
It certainly was a cheap version of the White Russian. Emphasis on cheap and more like a white russian whore, but it was what it was. This was not the problem. The problem showed up around hour 6 of drinking in the form of a phone call. This phone call necessitated a number of things. First, in order to perform well away from home base (AKA my stash of alcohol) I was going to have to stock up for the trip. Drinking ferociously for a half hour after taking it easy for the past 6 isn't a good idea. In fact, it's fucking stupid. My wits weren't fully about me due to the slight haze I'd developed. I did it though, I drank in one half hour enough to match what I had drank the rest of the night combined. Ever so slowly the drunken stupor creeps up on me.
I stumble around the building for a while, momentarily disoriented. Why did I do that to myself? I could not remember. Just as slowly, the reason comes back to me: the phone call. Well, I've certainly gotten myself into quite a pickle.
At one point, pantsless and in a strange room, it dawns on me that even if I figured out how to get to the final destination of the evening, I had serious doubts about my ability to perform. After all, I was at that point where I would ordinarily just want to sleep. Except for all those cheap white russian whores I had fooled around with earlier, the caffeine involved wanted me to stay up.
Flash forward an hour and I vaguely remember being in a completely different strange room with totally unfamiliar faces. Who would open the door for someone like me? And where are my pants? I thought I put them back on earlier...
Stumbling back into my room, I found my pants and I remember the plan. Gotta do something about that phone call. Only problem is that it's now 4 hours later and all my vodka is gone. Presumably someone else drank the rest of it, because even though there were witnesses telling me I polished off the alcohol, I can't recall that actually happening. They are probably lying like that bitch from the night before. She only tricked me into a false sense of security Friday so that she could put the strap-on on her head and go to town on my asshole like some sort of demonic rhino. Roar! She screamed. And then I curled up in the fetal position and eventually took it, like the little bitch that I am.
It was 3 in the morning by the time I fell, fully clothed and missing my favorite blue lighter, sadly into bed. It was 3 in the morning when the cheap vodka whorebitch took back that fun I owed her from the night prior. As well as any other fun I might have had the chance to accrue over the course of my life. Swearing off alcohol for the rest of my life when I awoke, I toast you now, no more than 12 hours after that alcohol-less pledge with drink in hand.
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