At this point I decided to do what the lovable rogues in these stories always do, which is to cleverly deflect blame and avoid responsibility. "It's the drink!" I said. "I can't tell up from down! When I'm three sheets to the wind, you can't expect me to tell virtual twins like Tobey Maguire and Elijah Wood apart!"
"Well, they do look a little similar ..." he admitted.
"Or Zooey Deschanel and Katy Perry!"
This is actually intentional, right?
"Well, maybe ..."
"Or Michael Caine and Katie Holmes."
Left: Michael Caine, Right: Katie Holmes. I think.
"God, Batman Begins was so confusing. I didn't know when he was talking to his girlfriend and when he was talking to his butler. At least they could have gotten them to do their hair differently or something, you know?"
"Wait ... you weren't drinking when you watched Batman Begins."
I sensed I should have stopped when I was ahead.
"Drinking's got nothing to do with it, does it? You've never been able to tell white people apart. Do you even know who I am right now?" he asked.
I squinted. "Donald Rumsfeld?"
"OK, that's it." Rumsfeld threw a cat at me. I blocked the cat just in time and countered by hurling a Kitchen-Aid Professional 600 Series Stand Mixer (6-quart capacity, color: caviar) at him, screaming that the blood of Iraqi civilians was on his hands. He dodged and the stand mixer crashed into the bookshelf, after which we closed in and began to slap at each other limp-wristedly until we got tired (about 10 seconds).
I know that sounds unbelievably awesome, like an action sequence out of a John Woo movie, but it's all 100 percent true, or at least the last part is.
Exhausted, I slowly lost consciousness on the couch. The last thing I saw was the clock, which read 10:30 p.m. We had been up almost all night!
I came to slowly, and looked up to see a pair of double sliding doors. What the hell? Where was I? I didn't have sliding doors in my ceiling. "WHERE AM I?" I screamed.
Some kind of strange attic hatch?
"What are you yelling about?" asked a strange voice behind me. I froze. Who was this stranger?
"Oh my God, I'm in bed with a stranger in a weird room with sliding doors on the ceiling!" I cried out.
"That's not the ceiling, that's your closet door. You're lying on your side."
"Oh," I said. "Thank goodness. You turned me over so I wouldn't choke on my own vomit."
I also learned about that from my crazy drug lifestyle and not from Breaking Bad or anything.
"No, you just rolled over by yourself. You just gave a big old snore and rolled over. And nobody vomits after drinking half a bottle of wine. Not even you."
I rolled over to face the stranger. It was actually Mike. I think. "Why do you sound so weird?"
"I think I'm getting a cold," he said.
"I don't remember coming to bed," I said. "Last thing I remember I was on the couch, and then ..."
"And then you said you probably should get ready for bed, and then you got up and brushed your teeth and washed your face and changed into your pajamas and fed the cats and went to bed. Like you always do."
"Oh," I said. "Well, was there anything craaaaaazy about the way I fed the cats or brushed my teeth?"
"No," he said, "but I think you put on your pants backwards."
I looked down, and sure enough, wouldn't you know it, my pants were on backwards!
AND my shirt was partially untucked!
I don't know about you guys, but that's what I call a totally out-of-control night. What can I say? I like to live life on the edge.
And if you don't think that's a wild and badass drinking story that's right up there with any cool Internet writer's crazy misadventures, then oh God you're totally right, this was a terrible mistake, I'm the lamest person in the world.
I'm as old and uncool as Newt Gingrich.