Last night I took it easy. I had a fun but extremely low-key evening. So when I wake up this morning, I feel great. My exemplary Saturdaynight behavior has been rewarded. The allknowing hangover gods looked down upon me and said, “Let this man have a Sunday free of sinus headaches and latenightgarbageeating indigestion. Let him go forth and be productive on this glorious midsummer weekend day. For he has earned this right by showing us he can be an intelligent and responsible young man.”
I’m eager to start my day. I have a bounce in my step, a crystal-clear
twinkle in my eye, and — as you can see in the photograph above — an
adult-sized hotdog costume in the back seat of my car. What can possibly
go wrong?
I take a quick shower and begin getting dressed as I mull over all the
things I can do with my day. I could drive up to Maine to visit my dad.
I could go for a long run. I could clean my apartment. Or maybe I
should get together with a few friends and piss away nearly $300 on a
10hour bender that I will shamelessly call “brunch.” Someone get Aunt
Jemima on the phone — I think we have a winner!
When did we, as a society, lose control over brunch? (Yes, I’m blaming
society for the 12 cocktails I’ve consumed today.) Brunch used to be a
light meal with a cute name shared between old ladies after church.
Today, it’s an extension of Saturday night — and an excuse to do
tequila shots on a Sunday. (What? You’ve never done tequila shots at
brunch before? DAMN YOU, SOCIETY! YOU’VE DONE IT TO ME AGAIN!)
Speaking of church, if you think about it, brunch has kind of become
our generation’s Sunday Mass. After all, it’s groups of likeminded
people gathering each week to share stories, see friends, and celebrate
life. Seems the only difference is we like a little booze with our
religion. Disagree? Then answer me this: what do you call a Bloody Mary
without alcohol? A Virgin Mary. Chew on that celery stalk for a while,
smart guy.
So if we accept brunch as a form of religion, my friends and I would be
described as devout. In fact, we’ve been praying to bartenders all over
the South End today. Our crusade, which started off with the best
intentions, has unfortunately spiraled downward into a Bloody Mary
mess. Several of us are double fisting, one of us has developed a slur,
and I’m aggressively trying to push a cheeseburger down my throat.
(Here’s a tip: if brunch lasts long enough that you require a second
meal, it’s probably time to ask for the check . . . if you’re still
able to.)
So what’s with the hotdog costume? Yeah, good question. Honestly, by
Monday morning I don’t even remember putting it on. In my condition,
I’m actually surprised I didn’t try to eat it. If you’re wondering how
I managed to get myself home, there’s no need to worry: I took a cab. I
may have been drunk enough to walk down the street dressed like a
wiener, but trying to drive, well, that just wouldn’t have been kosher.
