Last Call. Ever.

This past Tuesday I observed National Bring Your Hangover to Work Day.
The inaugural holiday, established by me on Monday evening, encourages young professionals to introduce their hangovers to the rigors of the white-collar workplace, while at the same time providing a pointed and cautionary reminder that binge drinking has absolutely no place on a weeknight if you're over the age of 23. Or any other time for that matter.
The goal of the program is to make yourself look as unprofessional and irresponsible as possible as well as promote quick-thinking 'masking' techniques such as the utilization of Altoids and Old Spice to cover-up the lingering stank of various distilled spirits.
Much like Bring Your Daughter (or Son, or Dog) to Work Day, Bring Your Hangover to Work Day is generally a bad idea. The intention is to have the hangover not seen and not heard, just sitting discreetly and quietly in your cubicle. But before you know it, you're fuzzily fumbling with the buttons on the copier and rifling through co-workers purses to find Advil. One thing leads to another and you find yourself in the men's room, contorted under the hand dryer with a handful of paper towels, desperately attempting to rub out the vomit stain from your J.C. Penney Stafford necktie.
Pathetic.
Normally, I know my limits. I like to have a cocktail or two from time to time. But (almost) always in moderation.
Not Monday night.
I completely blame my wife. As we sat on the sun porch, enjoying the warm and breezy summer evening, she watched as I poured myself drink after drink, saying nothing about it. I didn't even realize what I was doing. I thought I was merely intoxicated by her witty conversation and charming smile when in fact it was the three double old fashioneds full of triple-Beam-coke-no-ice I downed in the course of an hour and a half.
I was pleasantly buzzing by the time I hit the sheets. I thought I was whispering sweet nothings into her ear during pillow talk, but in reality I was getting kinda grabby and mumbling Johnny Lee Hooker lyrics instead.
One bourbon, one scotch, one beer, indeed.
So Tuesday morning my head was pounding, I was still congested from the bout of bronchitis the week before and sufficiently queasy from the booze. I held my breakfast down until 11:00 when I ralphed into the third floor men's room toilet (which is finally fixed, BTW).
If you're disappointed in me, you have every right to be. Frankly, I'm pretty disappointed in myself. If you don't know when to say when, I would suggest erring on the side of caution.
Because not being able to hold your liquor might translate into not being able to hold your job.

This has been a Public Service Annoucement from my liver.