I’m getting quite militant in my anti-alcohol stance, and it’s not helped by the time of the year. Perfectly nice get-togethers are going to be plagued with Sloshologues and Slurrysations.
You know the thing; a half-baked ill-informed observation is bandied about by someone who can barely talk in a coherent manner, while people of equal disequilibrium respond without thought.
So far, so boring.
But Pissedmitribes don’t end there. With all three facts on the subject ejaculated from the frothed mouths of be-whiskied dicks, the original beered-ballbag makes his original observation again, this time slightly more vociferously, as if the extra volume lends added credence.
This is usually my cue to go home; but that’s not always possible.
So instead, the drunkomoans drone on, reiterating each of their one salient points with increasingly less articulacy, but more fervent vigour. It’s usually at this point I’m accosted by a clamping embrace, unable to make an escape from the alcoholic verbiage, trapped under the weight of a vodka-breathed man twat.
My sarcastic retorts to observations that immigrants are eating our children go unheard in the melee of the shittergasms.
Anyway, Christmas would be so much nicer if Santa wasn’t an alcoholic.
I shaid, Crishmuss wld be sho mush nicsher if …