“America runs on Dunkin.”
I have a problem with this slogan. America does not “run” on Dunkin. America does not do any physical activity in correlation with Dunkin Donuts; certainly not running. America sits on their fat asses in their Hoverounds and watch marathon episodes of Jerry Springer on Dunkin Donuts. They qualify for gastric bypass and pay for two seats on airplanes on Dunkin Donuts. America “rolls” on Dunkin Donuts. That’s what they do.
On four separate occasions while attempting to type “Dunkin Donuts” in the above paragraph, I typed “Drunkin Donuts” by accident. I might have a problem. I also might not have a problem.
I guess we’ll never know.
My GPS gets a little snotty sometimes if (when) I ignore its directions and take “alternative routes.” Its name is “Samantha.” Samantha is not some name I picked out thinking I was clever. Samantha is actually my GPS’s name. It introduced itself when I first set it up. I have a Mio brand GPS. I recently discovered that other brands like Garmin and Tom Tom give you choices about whose voice you would like to help you navigate your way around town. I never knew there were other options available. Now that I do, this opens my world up to a myriad of possibilities.
I want Xzibit to give me directions to Panda House. I want Gary Busey’s crazy ass telling me my ETA. Or Arnold Schwarzenegger. What if I could have Clint Eastwood give me directions to the nearest US Bank? The technology is available—why haven’t we done this yet?
I almost threw up at a wedding reception last night. Not an ideal situation. Our old roommates in Kansas City were getting hitched, and as in any celebration, the responsible thing to do was to rejoice by consuming irresponsible amounts of liquor. Dan “Microwave Boyz” Seibert, his hot girlfriend Crystal “I’m tall but not freakishly tall” Sinn, and myself returned to the hotel after the ceremony to trade our high heels for flip flops, down a 5-Hour Energy shot (I pulled the trigger—alcohol was going to balance it out this time), and do a teeny-weeny bit of pre-reception alcohol consumption before making our appearance. After a dose of Captain Morgan, we strolled into the reception hall to get our fiesta on.
I begin the night with class, consuming a couple glasses of red wine. We finish dinner, and slowly the dance party begins. Unfortunately the DJ felt like playing things like Avril Lavigne, so I assumed the duty of writing him a short list of suggestions, including Nelly – Hot in Here (a staple to any dance party). But before he got around to busting out some jams I liked enough to embarrass myself on the dance floor, I had to increase my BAC to move-busting percentages.
My new friend Nick “Ridin’ Solo” Simien spotted a table with two large shots already poured up, ripe for the plucking. I am passed a shot filled to the brim, and am told it is something called a “Grape Bomb.” I hadn’t taken a shot since the Costa Rica “event” (read about it), and my alcohol tolerance in general is about as strong as a two year old’s. But this was different. Grapes? Babies even eat grapes. It probably tastes like a popsicle. How bad can it be? I thought. Down the hatch.
Immediately, that old familiar feeling came over my entire body. Instant chills, goosebumps crawled all over my skin, my mouth began to water. “Uh oh,” I internally thought. I looked up. The bathroom was literally only 12 feet away from me. I took solace at least in that. I stood for a moment, wishing it away. The grapey burny sensation stung in the back of my throat, and my eyes began to tear up. I may as well had taken a shot of scented Windex. It was like a Tylenol Chewable doused in gasoline. “Am I really going to throw up in the middle of a wedding reception?” I asked myself. That would be really, really juvenile. I couldn’t allow myself to do that. I muscled through it.
A shot of Captain, a Grape Bomb, and five glasses of Shiraz later, I am stumbling around on the dance floor to Chris Brown songs, swinging my half full glass of red wine along with me. It wasn’t very long before both my right hand, teeth, and tongue were stained purple. Around 12:15 a.m., I decided to execute the ol’ “sneak away,” and went back upstairs and passed out.
I woke up looking and feeling like Courtney Love. You know the rest.
“That kid reminds me of Richard…dipped in drugs.”