A.M. Ale Turns To P.M. Panic

I promised a recap (and really, since no one reads this, I'm sure there's not a clamoring for this recap, but anyway...), so here goes: The day drinking extravaganza was going splendidly, screwdrivers and Yuengling Lights with the 1986 classic "The Transformers: The Movie" (unbelievably, this is Orson Welles last film, I'm not kidding), a bottle of Riesling with the god squad send-up "Saved!" starring a dastardly Mandy Moore (and a crippled Macaulay Culkin), and multiple Natty Lights with Cuse/BC (and Hot Action founder Mike Swint and Wheelhouse icon Jerry). The evening even led to the VA bar TBD (Whitlow's in fact), where probably after just 45 minutes there I simply freaked out. Just freaked out. Maybe it was Josh Smith's dunks (or the energy drink flowing through the veins) but I just lost it. Couldn't maintain. Handed my beer to Jerry and left. Thought I was trying to crawl out of my own skin (like that scene in A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2: Freddy's Revenge). 25 minutes later, I was praying to the Porcelain God for what would be the first of 6 trips. 6 trips to the Vomitorium in the next 8 hours. I crawled out of bed at 5pm Sunday for the first time. I am still hungover this morning, well over 48 hours later. Oh yeah, and because I puked more than an Olson twin after a trip to Golden Corral, everytime I swallow it feels like I'm washing down 30 thumb tacks. The lesson, as always: I am a complete idiot.