Congratulations on Spiraling into Alcoholism In Style!

You always knew you were going to be an alcoholic. Your daddy was an alcoholic, your mammy was an alcoholic and your grand gramps was an alcoholic. Your grandma just huffed boot black, which you’ve come to understand was the depression equivalent of spray paint.

But a man makes his choices and lives with them. He does not wait, frightened, for the demon of drink to take him. He does not cower in churches on Tuesday nights, clutching coffee and day-old doughnuts and praying for guidance from a higher power like some sort of sucker. He embraces fate and, through this embrace, becomes more of a man.

That’s exactly what you’re going to do today when you walk into a liquor store dressed in your finest suit, a pinstripe affair you purchased to attend your sister’s wedding back in 1999. This was before The Sickness took her and she became, as you’re about to become, a toothless hobo. But she did it in her pajamas, stepping out of a Toyota Tercel with a lit cigarette in her mouth. You’re going to redefine hitting rock bottom with your getup.

The liquor store clerk will look you up and down and nod, saying “Damn” as he hands you your bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.

You’ll nod back at him and say “Damn right” as you leave his store, stepping back out into the biting Philadelphia winter. You’ll wrap your stylish scarf around your neck, blow into your hands one last time as a sober man and unscrew the top of that Mad Dog bottle, sucking down as much as you can with your first gulp. It will feel warm going down your throat, smooth, slick even. You’ll lick your lips and think to yourself, it feels like coming home.

Congratulations on Spiraling Into Alcoholism In Style!

Congratulations on Beating Britain At What They Do Best!

This is a retroactive Sexy Results prediction that we initially rejected due to abject absurdity. Yesterday America beat the living shit out of Algeria 1-0 to advance to elimination play in the World Cup for the first time in decades. Because America was so awesome this victory catapulted them, retroactively, into a position about England in terms of international standings in soccer. So America, at present, has already handily defeated England at the only sport that the two of us actually compete in with one another aside from yachting.

Congratulations on Beating Britain At What They Do Best!

Congratulations on Drinking Yourself Into a Coma!

You’re a young man making his way across the country by moving from elite underground drinking circle to elite underground drinking circle. How underground, you might rightfully ask? So underground everyone in these fuckers thinks it’s still 1986 and all the chicks try to look like Olivia Newton John on H.

That’s what we thought.

Anyhow, you’ve built up quite a reputation over the last few months drinking in various absurd scenarios. You are uniquely well suited for this lifestyle, having grown up the child of a geologist and a senator, and even though you’ll only have been on “the scene” for a brief time you’ll be known as a fearsome contender.

This is how you’ll be seen when you arrive in Tulsa next Friday. You’ll come into town on a Greyhound Bus in frayed jeans and a plain brown t-shirt. You’ll be wearing sunglasses and a bored expression and you’ll tell your guide “Show me where to drink” and she’ll swoon.

The two of you will then bone in the awkward, hurried way of alcoholics, avoiding touching one another after all is done and showering separately. You’ll both be proud, but the experience will leave you each feeling dirty and it’ll throw off your whole vibe for the night.

Enter Mad-Dog Wilkinson. Mad-Dog is one of the biggest names in competitive drinking and before he went underground he was James Wilkinson, your daddy’s biggest challenger for his senate seat. Also, the girl you just slept with is his daughter (it’s a really small community, okay?)

Suffice it to say, Mad-Dog is going to want to see you crash and burn. He’s going to challenge you to a Tequila-Off on his home turf and you’ll be honor bound to accept. But after that weird sex and not really having eaten in the last few days since you refuse to eat Roy Rogers and Greyhounds refuse to stop anywhere else, it won’t end well.

You’ll be on the verge of vomiting after six hours of steady drinking, and Mad-Dog will barely be sweating profusely. Still, you’ll hold on and give it your all, swallowing down bile with each shot of sweet, sweet Mexican bliss.

After finishing your third entire bottle of tequila you’ll enter an alcoholic coma. The “doctor,” a man in a soiled tank-top with a stethoscope around his neck, will say that there’s no way to tell if you’ll ever wake up.

But Mad-Dog’s daughter will believe in you and she’ll stay by your side, force feeding you and making sure you get water for a whole two weeks. She’ll lose her job at the 80s themed strip club caring for you, but she won’t care. All she’ll care about is the safety of the man her daddy hates.

And eventually her efforts will pay off. One day when her money’s getting dangerously low your eyes will flutter open and you’ll ask her if this is another dream and she’ll kiss you on your vomit stained, gaping mouth.

Then you’ll bone again, and this time it won’t suck. So congratulations on drinking yourself into a coma. We normally wouldn’t say that series of words, but this time around its going to lead you to having dynamite sex with your rival’s daughter and restoring the honor of your family name down the road.

Congratulations on Receiving Your First DUI!

Not that this is the first time you’ve ever driven drunk. Oh, god no. That was that time you shot your pappy while he was teaching you to hunt because even if the good lord had seen fit to give you titties, he was going to raise you like a boy. He had you drink a bottle of Wild Turkey with him and you still don’t remember how you survived the trip. You were 14 at the time, by the way.

Nor is this the first time you’ve ever been caught. You were 18 at the time then, and you agreed to blow the police officer in order to be let off the hook. Your boyfriend, 19 at the time, watched from the passenger seat. This is actually how he realized he was gay.

This is just the first time you’ve been charged. We’re surprised you made it this far, but you’re 23 and the cop who pulled you over is one of those “fags” who doesn’t accept sexual favors from people he’s arresting.

You’ll be riding with an open bottle of Jameson between your thighs and he won’t even perform field sobriety on you. He won’t have to; you’ll scream how wasted you are at him for a solid ten minutes while he tries to keep you standing upright so he can get you in the cruiser.

When you come to at 4 AM the next day you’ll look out the bars of your cell to see him there, at his desk in that small town Arizona prison, filling out paperwork. You’ll be struck by his piercing eyes, strong jaw and flawless skin. It won’t even take a heartbeat for you to fall in love.

So here are some tips on how to play this: remember, he knows you like to party, so you don’t need to tell him that again. He already turned you down once, but that doesn’t mean you can’t win him over. Show him another (sober, if you have it anymore) side to yourself. And finally, buy a shirt that isn’t a halter top. Cops dig classy dames.

Oh, and congratulations on receiving your first DUI. Even if shit doesn’t work out this morning you’ll still see him at your hearing.