I would like to leave a legacy to those who follow me. Figuring out what it should be has turned out to be difficult.  And not only because I’m half blotto.

Unfortunately, I have no empire to divide into bequests. I have no body of artistic work beyond a number of non-hit plays and a dozen songs that never made it into the top 10 million. Nor do I have any particular collection of note, other than my complete set of Louis L’Amour paperbacks. Hmmm? So what kind of legacy can I bequeath to humanity?

So I ask myself, “Self, what do you know about?”  And the guy at the end of the bar who thinks I’m a wuss because I’m in a Hell’s Kitchen bar with my laptop on the bartop, yells. “You know Jack Shit.”

Not true, I smile without too much eye-contact. I know Jack! I know Jack Daniels. I know Wild Turkey. I know cheap beer, and cheaper beer. I know drinking like Tiger Woods knows greens. This perks me up. And calls for a celebratory sip. Hell, I have skills!

Then I look around Rudy’s Bar. Everybody already knows how to drink, and they’ve all worked out a system that works for them — which is primarily that they drink only as much as they have money to pay for.

But wait!  I really, really, really know how to get sick. I mean, really! And I mean sickity-sick-sick-sick. A three day hangover with barfing and sleeping and barfing and whining and barfing and calling off work and more barfing used to be my way of life. Now, of course, being between executive positions, I don’t live such as upscale existence.

After some thought, and a fresh shot of bourbon with a beer which I can afford only because I can trade food stamps for cash, anywho, after that, I look around Rudy’s again and I have an “aha!” I even say it out loud. “Aha!”

Ok, people know how to drink, and they know how to get sick, mostly without hitting any “help” buttons. But, here it comes, my big idea: do they know how “not to get sick” like I know how not to get sick.

Maybe not. Maybe they don’t.  Maybe you don’t. Maybe my legacy to humanity could be my Morning After Remedies. “Caloo, Calay!” I chortle in my joy. I seem to chortle a lot when drink-thinking, which at moments like this, I think of as getting blog faced.

Before we get into the nitty part of the nitty-gritty, let’s make some assumptions.  Assumption One, you are a moron. Ha-ha, just kidding. Because you are still reading this and you actually think a guy called Patton Lee Beaugus might say something meaningful. Unless, of course, you’re just laughing at me. Hey, it happens.

Assumption Two, because you are a moron, no offence, you intend to drink your brains out, doing all the things you’re not supposed to do while drinking. Like drinking on an empty stomach. Like mixing. Like binging on oysters and chocolate cake when you get the munchies. And then having a nightcap of Grand Mariner to top it off.

Now, I ask myself, could anybody be such an idiot? And the answer jumps up and pees in my ear. I could! I could! I could! Because that’s what I’ve done. So now you know that no matter how stupid you are, or whatever stupid things you do, or have done in the past that have become legend among old high school buddies, I’ve done it better.  Or worse, depending how you score these things. Because while you are an amateur drinker, I am a professional drunk.

I notice that I’m way down on page 2 of Word which means this blog is running longer than I thought. It appears that I, the drunk guy who sits in the middle of the bar because he doesn’t want the bartender to get too far away, it seems like I have such a large legacy, it is going to take a multi-part post to commit my legacy onto posterity.

Okay, here we go. I’ll do one now and the rest later. 

First, the best thing to do when getting home is to offload. When you are absolutely positively not going to have another drink, and there is no one to entertain (bore) with your stories and antics, remove as much alcohol from your body as possible.

Personally, I like to offload outside in the bushes and weeds rather than in my own personal lavatory which I will have to clean later, like eventually. I also prefer aiming outwards rather than down. High volume projective vomiting can be fun if you are really smashed. But pointing down can only ruin another pair of drinking shoes.

Offloading can be done in stages with naps in between, or you can go from projectile to dry in one sitting, although I don’t think sitting is the right word. But in one lying doesn’t sound quite right either, even if it is more accurate.

Offloading in the bathroom is sometimes known as “worshipping at the porcelain altar”.  I like doing it before I go to bed (aka passing out) because if your stomach decides for you to do it in the middle of the night, it won’t be as much fun.

I will deal with this other insightful insights in the next post in the Patton Lee Beaugus Legacy Blog Morning After Remedy Series, published exclusively on OS because I’m 86ed from anywhere else.

“Danny!  Another Boilermaker for the Legacist!”