Welcome To The Hangover Club
Good morning, and welcome to the hangover club! Take an agenda and a seat and we’ll get started.
As usual, I’ll begin by introducing the food we’ve brought to the meeting. As we can see (and smell, yum!), Donovan’s got mashed potatoes… nice work Donovan… and Mickey’s got fried chicken, very good… Sarah’s brought one of my personal favorites, Chinese food leftovers, and Klein – wait, Klein, did you really bring grapefruit? You know this isn’t the Breakfast Club, right? What is our food motto? Say it with me. “Diets DIE here.” Are you on a diet, Klein? Grapefruits aren’t suitable hangover food. I have half a mind to send you home since you should know better, but count yourself lucky. We’ve got bigger fish to fry (also not a hangover food, don’t get any terrible ideas).
So like, first order of business. Hold on; let’s check the agenda because I already forgot. Oh! Right. So I just woke up, but already I want to take a nap. What is with that? Don’t answer. I have a pounding headache and if I have to hear any of you talk I’m gonna lose it. I will literally slap one of you across the face. With my hand. Donovan, now would be an excellent time to hand me those mashed potatoes.
Okay, now let’s stare off into the distance because I can’t bring myself to moderate this meeting right now. I physically can’t. All of my energy is devoted to not vomiting. The aging process is a bitch, huh? I used to think vomiting was for children, but it’s actually for adults whose bodies betray them. My body has betrayed me. My body is Benedict Arnold. My body is Jane Fonda. My body is Marcus Brutus. TRAITOR.
Does anyone want to make a Chipotle run? Klein? You have to be having grapefruit regrets right now. I nominate you. Cool? You’re clearly able-bodied enough, otherwise you wouldn’t have seriously considered bringing fruit here today. Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be pumping iron or running a marathon or at work, like a sober and productive member of society? Make yourself useful and get me a burrito. No cheese, I’m lactose intolerant.
Third or… whatever we’re up to, what the hell happened last night? Can we just talk about that for a second? I know none of you were there; I’m just desperate for some answers. You would be too, if you found broken glass and Cheetos in your purse this morning. I know what you’re thinking – you’re thinking, goddamn I want some Cheetos right now. So am I. Someone text Klein. Wait, Klein, you’re still here? As in you’re not out getting us burritos? Your disloyalty is dumbfounding. If I could expunge you from my memory, my life, and my hangover club, you bet your ass I would. You are the absolute worst.
Wait, wait. What are you saying? You already returned with the Chipotle, and I already ate mine? How is that possible? I believe you, man. I don’t know why, I just do. I’m having a Scarface moment. Not Al Pacino Scarface, Half Baked Scarface. I believe. Speaking of Half Baked, I’m going for the Guy on the Couch dream. Meeting adjourned.
A | A | A
To begin, I got totally screwed over in the dental genes department. I was born with a pretty severe overbite and a mouth that was too small.
If this doesn’t become the biggest video on the Internet, then I have no faith left in humanity.
Describe for us the threesome with your OKCupid hookup.
I visited synagogues all over the world—from Syosset, to Beverly Hills, and back again to Jericho. Studies were made, tests were run, I tasted the blood of a virgin Jew and even conducted my very own bris.