Breakfast of Champion Drinkers

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Breakfast of Champion Drinkers

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veryone’s had one of those AF Saturday nights. You blew off some steam and threw up the middle finger to that circle jerk of a work week. You caught up with a friend or five and hit up that new bar you’ve always wanted to try. You knocked back obscure concoctions made with Jagermeister, Tequila, Vodka, and élan. You pickled your liver in a mixture of single malt. Then when the music got too loud and the drinks too pricey, you decided that the buzz you caught needed to turn into full-blown highly vocal drunkenness. So you hit one of the many bars where you know the music is soft, the chaklis crunchy, and the owner probably a Shetty. Or it might have involved a bad, off-key rendition of “Free Bird”, a fiery electric red stain where the schezuan sauce first made contact with your shirt, and some good old-fashioned projectile vomiting on the pavement outside the bar. Finally as the sun came up, you crashed into a bed that may or may not be yours.

A few hours later, you woke up in hell.

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