I bear absolutely no responsibility for my raging hangover on Christmas Eve. If you were offended by it, then talk to the big guy upstairs. "Why would you want to be hungover and borderline ill for your daughter's first Christmas Eve at Grandma's house?". Because God wanted it that way is my answer. If God didn't want me to be hungover all day Saturday, then why did he(she....but not he-she, though if that is what it is, then I guess that is cool) insist on me drinking heavy beer in the evening, followed by Islay Scotch all night? Riddle me that, Batman. If it is God's plan for the Denver Broncos to go on a 5 game winning streak, for your aunt Penny to meet her soul mate (aka 4th husband) Lenny on match.com, and if it is all part of the Lord's Divine Plan that your kid have spinal bifida, then I guarangoddamntee you that Yahweh drew it up on his X's and O's board that I was to get Native American at a land negotiation drunk on December 23rd. I would take responsibility for my actions if only I was actually guiding myself through this so-called "life". But I'm not. This is God's plan baby, and I'm just along for the ride. Fuck free will. Listen, God laid before me a fantastic day of exploring a quaint little town in Central Ohio, and a bar with a highly respectable beer list in said town. God then guided our sleigh back to my parents' house, where God had the foresight to send me earlier in the morning to a local market to acquire numerous bottles of excellent ale. God put my young child to slumber and brought to my parents' home excellent friends. God also placed in the cupboard an excellent bottle of Ardbeg Uigeadail Islay Scotch. God then ignited a lovely roaring fire in a woodsy setting with a very comfortable sofa on which to lounge. Now you tell me Johnny Teetotaler....What the fuck was I supposed to do? Was I to walk up to the man God himself, point at something in the sky with alarm, and then while his attention was diverted upward, swat him as hard as I could in the ball sack with the back of my hand? Maybe you would bag God, buy I sure as shit am not. So I did what the Lord intended and got shitfaced. At least I stumbled--at some point--to bed. Other players in God's plan for Zach's December 23rd apparently "fell asleep" on the sofa and in a chair, only to be discovered by the matriarch at 3am as Bluegrass was still being broadcast over the stereo from Heaven. Thankfully for me, God did not want me to have a stiff neck on Christmas Eve. Only a sour stomach, body-rattling belches, a throbbing skull and constant feeling of being underwater all day.
I'm Scotch-Irish. What the fuck do you want from me?
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