The Munchies

You're dancing away like a FRICKIN MANIAC and all of a sudden, the lights come on to reveal you standing there sweating like Gary Glitter at a 13 year olds birthday party. You're so drunk that you tumble out of the nightclub full well knowing that you've most likely forgotten something, but you couldnt care less because there is something far more important on your mind; Charlies, McDonalds, Burger King, Zaytoon or something downright Blanch-like such as Abrakebabra. You meander through the streets with your friends looking like a group of Zombies as your torso is so far in front of your legs, that it looks like you are walking at a perfect 40 degree angle. The times when you end up in one of these places on your own after a night of outrageous drunken bolloxery; is when you havent eaten all day and suddenly, one of your main purposes in going out at all, is because you know the heart stopping lard will taste all the better after 3 million 'brain hemorrhages'- and you dont even wait for your friends. So, you get to one of the above mentioned 'restaurants' and there is a queue the length of Tommy Lee's penis; fan-FRICKIN-tastic... So with a great sigh you join the one that appears to be moving the fastest, only to find that in fact, all of the other lines are moving at breakneak speed while you are still stood there like a rabbit caught between two headlights. Your so surprised at how slow the 'FUCKING QUEUE' (as it has now become known) is moving that you begin to curse the register clerk. "What kind of a ship are they running here" as you point out that one of the ladies behind the counter is not wearing a hair net. Then if thats not enough, you have to start dealing with rowdy drunken tosspots who are trying to hop-jump and skip you faster than Usain Bolt could slap you in the face just for the craic (yes I know hes not a hop-skip-jump althlete). Anyway, after you've had the balls to speak up and prevent the itinerant from skipping you (there are some of you who dont say a word isnt there? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES) you realise that you are nearing the top of the queue. AT LAST. But there is one more thing you must contend with before you reach the tipping point of receiving your slobber; and they are 'jump shippers'- people in the queue parallel to you who are waiting to jump from their queue across into your queue the second as the clerk yells 'NEXT'. They are cunning so you must always remain aware of their Ninja like stealth. So, you've managed to block them and you're at the top of the queue at last, your only real issue now is that you havent put any thought into what you feel like eating. A bigger issue however is that because you're polverised out of your face, your eyes are now too big for your belly (not a problem for that bird from the Apprentice) and you order a plethora of foul tasting frogshite that Marlon Brando couldnt finish let alone you in your drunken state. As you begin to get more and more full, you start chucking gurkens at the LCD screens hoping in a childishly fiendish way, that they will stick to the glass. I often wonder how the hell we can find our way both home and to a fast food restaurant when pissed out of our brains to the point where we cant even see straight? Especially when you're going to wake up the next day and not remember a thing. The additional pain in the bum is that because you've indulged in your little filthy food affair, you now have to wait until day break to get a taxi... Wonderful. Also, the amount of times I wake up to 3 boxes of half eaten Mizzonis chips, chicken and stale garlic bread, is disgraceful - I now associate that fucking green and white striped box with unmerciful hangovers. However, what happens when you have none of the above outlets available to you? Well that is clearly answered the next day when you find a packet of half eaten biscuits crumbled all over your bed. I find it truly hilarious that you realise you've tried to recreate the professionalism of O'Briens sandwich bar too, when you notice that an empty packet of King crips have clearly been emptied onto a plate where your ham sandwich was before its half eaten remains were mashed into the floor - another thing to clean; Great. Then your completely disgusting hangover comes full circle when you empty your jean pockets looking for your car keys to go buy a breakfast roll in Spar, but instead you find an illuminous pink ticket with the numbers 1543 written on it but you read it as; 'YOUR FUCKING JACKET YOU TITFACE', (it just so happens to be the lovely, overly expensive winter coat that your parents had bought for Christmas as you are now at the point in your life when you're content with clothes for gifts).... And so the intermittant flashbacks begin with you leaving the nightclub full well knowing that you've forgotten something, but you couldnt have cared less because there was something far more important on your mind; isnt that right?.... Shame you didnt realise that your car keys were in your jacket pocket, isnt it? You gobshite...

Bottomline no 16; Never let hunger rule you - unless of course you're starving to death.

Next post; The Toilet people

Slan mo Chara

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