Ok. Fair’s fair. But what I want to know……………..

Ok.  Fair's fair.  But what I want to know.................

is, who let me drink 190 gallons of cider last night.

Yes, it was probably a good idea at the time; yes, I probably thoroughly enjoyed myself; yes, getting to bed is still a bit of a mystery to me. However, who ever paid the God of hangovers a rather LARGE tip last night, is due a right ding around the ear when we next meet.

That is all.

Now there is this –

One-Star Hangover: No pain. No real feeling of illness. Your sleep last night was a mere disco nap which is giving you a whole lot of misplaced energy. Be glad that you are able to function relatively well. However, you are still parched. You can drink 10 sodas and still feel this way. Even vegetarians are craving a steak bomb and a side of gravy and chips from any rural Australian servo.

Two-Star Hangover: No pain. Something is definitely amiss. You may look okay but you have the attention span and mental capacity of a staple gun. The coffee you drink to try and remain focused is only exacerbating your rumbling gut, which is craving a bacon sandwich the size of your head and and breakfast from McDonald’s. Last night has wreaked havoc on your bowels and even though you have a nice demeanor about the office, you are costing your employer valuable money because all you really can handle is surfing internet porn and Facebook.

Three-Star Hangover: Slight headache. Stomach feels crappy. You are definitely not productive. You have the attention span of a gnat. Anytime a girl walks by you gag because her perfume reminds you of the random gin shots you did with your alcoholic friends after the bouncer threw you out of a lock in at 3:45 a.m. Life would be better right now if you were in your bed with a extra large pizza, a gut full of Codrals’ watching crap ’80’s dvd’s. You’ve had 4 cups of coffee, a gallon of water, and any fizzy non-alcoholic drink you can get your hands on – yet it’s 2pm and you haven’t urinated once.

Four-Star Hangover: Life sucks. Your head is throbbing and you can’t speak too quickly or else you might puke. Your boss has already lambasted you for being late and has given you a lecture for reeking of booze. You wore nice clothes, but that can’t hide the fact that you missed an oh-so crucial spot shaving, (girls, it looks like you put your make-up on while riding the bumper cars) your teeth have sweaters, your eyes look like one big vein and your hair style makes you look like something dead has crawled onto your head. You would murder a nun for one or all of the following:
1. The clock to magically tell you it’s time to go home
2. Two litre’s of IV solution, run flat out, were magically attached to your left arm.
3. A time machine so you could go back and NOT have gone out the night before.

Five-Star Hangover (a/k/a Dante’s 4th Circle of Hell): You have a second heartbeat in your head (exacerbated by 6 bouts of the dry heaves) which is actually annoying the employee who sits in the next cube. Vodka vapor is seeping out of every pour and making you dizzy. You still have toothpaste crust in the corners of your mouth from brushing your teeth. Your body has lost the ability to generate saliva, so your tongue is suffocating you. You’d cry but that would take the last of the moisture left in your body. Death seems pretty good right now. Your boss doesn’t even get mad at you and your co-workers think that your dog just died because you look so pathetic. You should have called in sick because, let’s face it, all you can manage to do is bitch about your state – which is a mystery to you because you definitely don’t remember who you were with, where you were, what you drank and why there is a stranger still sleeping in your bed, unaccompanied, at your house, who you later realise is your wife. The only thing you can do is pass out. It’s when you wake up a few hours later with a lesser star hangover that you eat a large pizza, a curry the size of the Israeli defence budget, and a chicken kebab with extra garlic sauce.

In two days you have forgotten this vital information, as you wade through 400 punters to get to the bar.

Hamish. Click the picture, and get your redneck on.

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