Proletariat Power

Last night, I wanted to go to a bar so I could get some Long Island lovin'. I ended up gloriously inebriated at Michael's Pub on Flamingo and Rainbow, mere inches from my house. But first, the lead-in:

I've been screwed over by 'beer bars' before. A beer bar is just like a normal bar, except there's no liquor. I don't even know how these places can be legally called bars. You can go into a freakin' Chipotle's and get a Corona or a Dos Equis. I used to work across the street from a bar called Money Plays, which sold nothing but beer, and I only went there on lunches because they had a shuffleboard table. There were like six liquor bars within walking distance. When lunch breaks were over, you could literally build a cabin out of all the drunk working-class gents lying all over the sidewalk.

I never go to bars alone, because that would make me an alcoholic, probably; so I invited my female poor, Nelly, to go with me. I told her I was looking for a bar that actually served sweet, life-preserving booze. She instructed me to go to Michael's.

Now, let me tell you something: Nelly apparently knows the man who INVENTED bars. As soon as we got inside, she was dropping names like locust shit in a plague. The bartender, who apparently knew how to make exactly one drink (it was the Long Island; his whiskey sour was crap) just sat there, stunned, as Nelly rattled off pretty much the entire administrative and supply team for the bar. Hell, I was impressed.

Meanwhile, a biker from Seattle let a hilariously drunken woman use his cell phone to call a man who had apparently snubbed her and bitch him out for the better part of fifteen minutes. Some gay dude at the other end of the bar proudly confessed that he'd escaped Tuscaloosa or something (I don't know, some place in the south where they hate queers) to come to tolerant Vegas, where men are judged solely by their alcoholic fortitude and bankroll. In essence, it was just like any other dive bar, except nobody knew how to make a fucking electric lemonade.

My Diabolic Plot To Drink Four Beers

Fancy came over on Friday with, I shit you not, FOUR huge beers from Whole Paycheck. Four large beers, thirty one dollars. It was supposed to be some really kickass gourmet beer, but it had an incredibly retarded name, like monobrow or something. You'd think there'd be a rule in the beer industry to not name your product after a genetic deficiency, but whatever. I'll still be at the store, buying Sickle Cell Anemia and Fetal Alcohol Syndrome when they hit the shelves.

Anyways, we had the brilliant idea of drinking them in order of worst rated to best rated, completely forgetting the fact that we would be way too royally smashed to even taste the last beer. By the time I was done with the last glass, I was fading in and out of consciousness, so I took a quick zone-out while Fancy fielded long-distance booty calls with diarrhea-like regularity (or so he told me when I woke up). I'd accuse him of sleeping with my girlfriend or something, but he always says he did that, so there's absolutely no point in trying to call him on it.

So anyways, he was pretty smashed near the end too, and in the process of handing his child off to a random stranger that drove near the house, he also gave away his car keys, meaning I had to drive him home. That was a challenge. There are no less than four bars on the way to his house. The next day, my head was like the talking drums of Africastralia or wherever they come from. It was literally like my brain was trying to punish me for driving Fancy home with the power of techno. Next time, he can sleep in the backyard.

Absolut Peach

I'm totally not above shilling a product I believe in. For absolutely no money, I will extol the virtues of self-administered HIV tests, flea and tick spray, and fingerprint removal kits, as they've all been godsends to me at some points during my life.

Absolut Peach Vodka may not have been as useful to me as those other things above, but those are the things you buy during the "oh, shit" moments. On the other hand, Absolut Peach is something you buy when you want a little decadence. When you open the bottle and smell it, it's not like they waved a peach over the top of the bottle. It smells like the entire state of Georgia uprooted itself and came over to your house to get totally wasted. With a little orange juice, it's like a brief taste of divinity.

The only thing I hate about it is that there's no "alcoholic-sized" bottle option. With a little determination, you can polish the whole thing off yourself in just a couple hours. Dirty pool, Absolut. Dirty pool indeed.

How Much Is That Doggie

3:00:32 PM Kerplunk: it was such a great feeling on saturday when i drank

3:00:38 PM Teleolurian: it should be.

3:00:41 PM Teleolurian: it's called "drunk".

3:00:44 PM Kerplunk: i felt horrible later on, but still

3:00:49 PM Teleolurian: yeah

3:00:50 PM Kerplunk: i miss that feeling

3:00:53 PM Kerplunk: ::tear::

3:00:55 PM Teleolurian: that's called "i'm sorry i fucked your dog"

Jackie, Dressed In Cobras

So, apparently, Jacqueline isn't making enough money at her new bartending job, what with all the drunks not liking sunlight, and sunlight being rather prevalent during the shift she works. I'm not sure. Some period of time called "day".

See, in the highly competitive, tip-based bartending world, the amount of money you make somehow is based upon the number of customers you have. Years of collective moaning from the pro-temperance crowd means that pretty much nobody wants to be seen strolling into a bar during daylight hours for fear of being stoned to death by a group of matronly harridans, who all go to bed at five-thirty. Because at 6 PM the air suddenly turns to Johnnie Walker and the teenagers put the devil music on their hi-fis and gyrate suggestively against each other in their skintight jeans.

Part of me hopes that Jacqueline gets a better and more magical job, because she needs more money so she can buy food, happiness, and blow. The more important part of me, which needs alcohol to function, wants her to tend bar until our planet is consumed in horror by an angry Sun, because then she would be forced into a life of serving me mixed drinks until I try to mate with the barstool (average number of drinks: six). You can't get that kind of devotion outside of forced labor.

Blitzedkrieg

So, our friend Jacqueline was tending bar on Saturday night, and I headed there with the intent to test her skills at a Long Island Iced Tea. It just so happens, I tested her skills at two Long Islands, half a pitcher of Newcastle, an Electric Lemonade, and a rum and coke.

Longtime fans of this series know what happens when the main character meets up with friends at a place that serves spirits: I do incredibly stupid things. An evening that started with polite political debate (fuck watching porn, nationally a black man is beating the ever loving shit out of a white woman) turned into the psycho circus when Jacqueline's intensely competitive boyfriend, Jacob, showed up with plans to show off his alcoholic superiority, like some kind of whiskey gestapo.

There's some defining moments in one's life, and one of them is realizing that you and big Jacob are grasping each others elbows, creating a forearm valley into which a smoldering cigarette is being tossed. At that particular moment, I was so full of besotted fortitude I could have let the thing burn a swiss-cheese network throughout my whole arm before I let go. We all woke up the next morning with lymph-engorged blisters. It was like my body's physical testament to machismo and stupidity.

But damn, those were tasty Long Islands.

Highlights From The Bar

Mike: Fancy! You're here! And you brought a Korean with you!
Me: What!? Don't touch me. Seriously. Do not touch me. Quit poking me. Stop it.


Mike: I just need a hundred and forty bucks to sail around the world!
Fancy: Really? How are you doing that?
Me: Do you just look for swimmers at the Mexican border and hop on?
Mike: Erm... thousand. A hundred and forty thousand.


Mike: I'm going to reinvent the ninja shoe.
Me: Ninjas already have shoes.
Fancy: Yeah, they have really fucked up toe things.
Mike: But they have the rubber grip!
Fancy: What?
Mike: There's this grip rubber! It lets you keep going up on the 45 degree angles!
Fancy: So, now you just need a rubber factory?
Mike: No! They already make it! For the 45 degree angles!
Fancy: So if you're going up a 46 degree angle, you're fucked?


Mike: Seriously, these foot fetishists are hardcore. They'll do anything to see more feet.
Fancy: I know. It seems like it would be so easy to get off on feet. I tried to develop a foot fetish, but it didn't happen.
Me: So, if there's pictures of feet all over the internet, how do you attract your own fetishists?
Mike: You have to make people stand in pies, or something.
Me: I don't get it.
Fancy: Yeah, me neither.


Mike: So, do you fantasize about [ex-girlfriend]?
Me: Hell no. She threw a bottle of booze at me. What a waste.


Not Attractive Girl: So, will one of you guys buy me a drink?
Me: Yeah, whatever. I need to break a hundred.
Not Attractive Girl: Okay, I'll sit next to you guys.
Me: (under my breath) I want to spit in your hair.


Bartender Jacob: Dude. These whores can put away the alcohol.
Fancy: Where's the whore?
Bartender Jacob: Over on the other side of the bar, in the corner.

(an hour and a half later)

Fancy: Wake up, we're leaving.
Mike: Already?
Me: We've been here for two hours. We're drunk. All the Henderson people have already left.
Mike: Where's the whore?
Fancy: Across the bar.


Mike: Oak World. That's a strip club, right? Oak World?
Fancy: Yeah, sure it is. Come on in and see all our wood.
Me: These aren't the bitches you're looking for.

OTCMiHKaL: Over The Counter Medicines I Have Known And Loved

A Chemical Love Story

advil
I figure that if my girlfriend can take one of these every ten minutes, it stands to reason that I can take ten of them every minute. Bolstered by this algebraic equation, I plunk a handful into my mouth before my mind can recognize the mathematical inconsistency. In three bites, what seemed like a mouthful of medicine-sweet M&Ms is now a sick-tasting bite of jagged glass. After swallowing, there is pain in my throat. Eventually, the pain goes away. Shortly afterwards, so does the bottle. Nothing seems to happen. I lie in bed listening to Bob Marley. This is boring. Fun: 1/10

claritin
My throat still a little sore from the Advil bit, I pop twelve pills from their blister pack and crush each one under a half-dollar. Using my driver's license, I cut out three lines and insufflate the first one. The burn blossoms in my brain, but my nose feels clogged. Then, suddenly, it doesn't. Ecstatic, I move on to the next line, and then the next. Each one is progressively easier. I chase it with half a liter of gin, just to make sure. Suddenly, I feel dizzy; I sit down on the couch and wait for the ride to kick in. Oh yeah, that's the ticket. Wait. Maybe it isn't. Half an hour later, I wake up in the middle of a flowerbed. A zinnia is staring me in the face. I'm two blocks away from my house. I get up and look around; there is a small tricycle behind me. Apparently, I stole it from my neighbors and rode it here. I return it and apologize; my neighbor, Suzanne, offers me a slice of blackberry pie. Fun: 3/10

calamine lotion
After I get home from the pharmacy, I pull the three pink bottles out of the bag and look at them thoughtfully. After a shot of Rumpelminze to boost my courage, I break the safety seal on the first one and chug it down. Ugh. This is worse than drinking vomit. I can barely keep the first bottle down as I crack the next one open. It tastes like a combination of sand, glue, and hair. The texture is indescribably bad. Halfway through the bottle, my gut heaves and I spray paint my kitchen in yellow-pink. I never knew such a color existed. Just looking at it makes me sick. After pondering whether or not to clean it up, I chug the rest of the second bottle so I can paint the rest. Fun: 0/10

theraflu
I dump two boxes of theraflu into a giant coffee mug, filling it by a quarter. After heating some water in the kettle, I mix it all together and drink it as quickly as I can without scalding my throat. Yes. Yes. Oh yes. After the past three attempts, finally something is happening. I feel calm, relaxed, drowsy. Very drowsy. When my legs tumble out from under me, the sound of the coffee mug shattering on the floor is somehow muffled. Fun: 6/10

birth control pills
These weren't over the counter, but I did find them in a coworker's purse, so they officially count. I can't remember if I'm supposed to eat the ones there are 7 of, or the ones there are 21 of, so I eat all of them. Nothing happens immediately, so I go to watch television. After three hours, I am vaguely aware that I am watching Days of our Lives, that my nipples are extremely tender, and that I am starving for candy. I get in the car to drive to the corner store, but on the way, I crash into a mailbox and break down in tears. Fun: 2/10

trucker fuckers
I persuade the cashier at 7-11 to sell me an entire box of trucker stimulants, then go home and tear the packages open like a gleeful child at Christmas. After the first three packages, I suddenly feel sixty thousand feet tall. My eyesight seems telescopic, eagle-like; I look around the room and notice that I now have a mental zoom that allows me to notice single objects in detail without missing a single thing that's going on anywhere else. I am dangerously aroused. I understand the lyrics to "East Bound And Down". Fun: 9/10

Ceci N'est Pas Une Pub Crawl

9:30 PM

In bed, watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. The little GiR icon on my screen starts bouncing. It's Fancy, at my front door, messaging me from his iPhone. He's managed to dump Devin Danger off on some unsuspecting ball of estrogen, and wants to go out. I call Sonny, who works at PT's. Sonny is asleep, and works at the PT's on Water and Boulder Highway at midnight. I express concern, because Water is way out in Henderson, where nobody lives and the zombies rise up at night in search of Pilsner.

9:45 PM

Calling around frantically for somebody - anybody - to go out drinking with us. I briefly consider each of my friends, then my wife's church friends, then my wife's church friends' parents, then her parents, then my mother. Fancy informs me that Joolz is spent from the night before. He looks panicked as he realizes that the inability to form a drinking party is the first sign of senility.

9:50 PM

In desperation, Fancy suggests we go play the ponies, since it's the cheapest way to drown yourself in high-grade alcohol. I explain to my puzzled wife what an electronic horse racing machine is. She seems to think it's the exact same thing as the kids' carnival game at the Excalibur. I patiently explain that a group of drunken adults are unlikely to play a gambling game in order to win a plastic viking hat. The entire point, the summation of the experience (if you will), is in the drinking, since playing the ponies is equivalent to paying 25c per rum-and-coke.

10:05 PM

Frazzled, desperate, and watching his youth fade away like those guys who drank from the wrong cups in Indiana Jones And The Jesus Cup Thing, Fancy orders me to get in the car so we can head to the Inn Zone. There is an extremely bad cover band there. They look like overaged metalheads, except they're playing Georgia Sattelites covers. We charge the bar to begin our pathetic pub crawl. Fancy goes for rum and coke; I sip a shot of Ouzo. I remember that I have already started this afternoon off with about three glasses of gin and orange juice. Fancy is whispering a mantra to himself.

10:25 PM

The Inn Zone sucks. It's mostly a place for extremely mannish women to flock together and congregate. It's impossible not to meet the potential love of your life at the Inn Zone, as long as you don't have an aversion to thoroughbreds. Looking at the shuffleboard table is reminiscent of the starting line at the Kentucky Derby. Fancy and I weigh our options, and flee to the PT's across the street. Sonny is still probably not even awake.

10:30 PM

PT's is dead. A somber pair play pool upstairs; there are a smattering of couples sitting around the bar; the bartender is only four days employed. We decide on Newcastle. We talk about drugs. When the gin cries out from my stomach, I suavely wander out to vomit in the parking lot. Fancy finishes my beer.

10:50 PM

The New York Bar & Grill has reached the point where only the regulars are seated at the bar. Two couples are playing eight-ball. I wonder aloud if any of them are attractive. None of them are. The bartender is a short, round woman from the South. She's got the tough streak that so many Southern women have when they run bars, or so I assume from watching Gunsmoke. She has a truly frightening pair of breasts, the kind that make you remember dreams of suffocation. I order a rum and coke simply because I can handle hard alcohol far easier than beer. Miraculously, I'm sobering up, but am starting to get bored. Steve orders one beer, then another. The bartender warns us that we need to go out the back door, since there's apparently a crazy guy at the front door.

Things are looking up. A crazy guy means I could potentially get into a fight. When we're ready to leave, we head out the back door, then wander around to the front, since that's where we parked anyways.

An old guy comes out of the entry chamber, presumably after being denied entry. He calls the bartender a rude name under his breath. He isn't worth getting in a fight over. Fancy drops me off at home, then heads off to cry.

The Cure For Cancer

Contractor knocks on my door.

Me: Can I help you?

Contractor: We're going around inspecting houses for toxic mold.

Me: It's okay, I have a cure.

Contractor: You have a what?

Me: It's pretty obvious that you just find something that rhymes to cure the problem.

Contractor: What are you, like, 12?

Me: Well, I'm not the one dying from toxic mold.

Contractor: So the cure for toxic mold is...

Me: Cuervo Gold!!!

Two hours later...

Drunken Contractor: Now cure mesothelioma.

The REAL Las Vegas on $40 a Day

Day 1

Drop all $40 into a nickel slot machine, hoping to earn dinner. Win nothing. Curl up into a ball on the CAT bus and cry.

Day 2

Today will be better. Buy a $7 book on beating the blackjack system from the hotel gift shop. Win $200 at the table, then blow it all on trying to get the girl who blew on your dice to come to the motel with you. Earn a comped meal at the buffet; stuff yourself silly. Take the bus to the casino reputed to have the "loosest slots in town". Lose $20. Spend the rest trying to win at blackjack again.

Day 3

Wake up at 2am. Grab three 97 cent breakfasts at Arizona Charlie's. Once eating is no longer a problem, learn to get free drinks by playing the longest lasting, cheapest games ever. Welcome to electronic horse racing machines. Stumble out at 10am with $33 in pocket. Become overwhelmed by the sun. Upon entering the next casino, be accosted by a man who will "totally hook you up". Do a line. Wander back and forth on the sidewalk for hours counting people who pass by and sorting them by hair color. Go back into casino; win $50 playing video poker. Look for that guy again. Go up and down the Strip looking for drug dealers. Discover Sin City, where everyone is a drug dealer, even the nice couple with the pram who just want to earn "enough money for a taxi ride home". Chase the dragon in your motel room, illuminated by yellow light.

Day 4

You're starting to be a pro at this. Disdain Arizona Charlies for an even cheaper 88 cent breakfast downtown. Begin to recognize that 'lucky feeling'. Play the ponies until lucky feeling multiplies by several orders of magnitude, aided in no small way by single-malt scotch. Assume that Circus-Circus, because of its gaudy and frankly scary theme, is actually the best place to gamble. Learn that this isn't true after 2 hours and $20. Score free popcorn. Drunkenly stumble across the street to the Riviera, where your first quarter in the slot machine nets you $10. Try to play Blackjack. Win more money. Play roulette. Make even more money. Lose it all at the craps table. Become frustrated when the pawn shops close and you cannot hock your wedding ring.

Day 5

Breakfast; ponies; drunk. Hock wedding ring for $50. Prepare to make your last day in Vegas count. Make a small profit at the tables. Get bored with gambling. Look for a prostitute. Wonder why 'she' doesn't do straight sex. Go along with it anyways. Develop canker sore in sensitive area a few hours later. Give up and head back to the airport. Buy cheap lookalike wedding ring in McCarran duty-free shop that seems to carry nothing but knockoffs of wedding rings, pearl necklaces, and prosthetic limbs. Get on plane to fly back home. Become outraged when you realize that you have to pay for your drink. Try to sleep. Realize you can't sleep without the sounds of gunfire, drug deals, and slot machines.

Fucking Ambien

So, I'm taking Ambien. This is because I can no longer take Lunesta, since it was making me sick. I was taking Lunesta because I have problems sleeping. I have problems sleeping because I'm manic. I'm manic because I'm better than you.

The first thing I'd like to tell you is that Ambien will fuck you up. You know that movie Memento? That guy who couldn't remember anything? Yeah. That's like, every evening after 7PM. Anterograde amnesia, for the record, is bad. I have driven to the store on this stuff. For all I know, I could be a murderer, a rapist, a spy. Who can tell? I have no memory.

The second thing is that Ambien is potentially habit-forming, which means I have to play with my dosages to try to keep from getting addicted to it. Apparently, it's not indicated for use past the six month mark. Just for the record, I have been manic and insomniac my entire life. I'm hoping I'll get switched to candy-flavored Xanax next, but the outlook remains bleak. Partly because the last time I took Xanax it clogged my nose, if you get my drift.

The third thing is that Ambien will knock you out, but it doesn't keep you asleep forever. This morning, I woke up at 4:30. Not wanting to stay awake for three hours before going to work, I decided to do the sensible thing and combine gin, tonic, and seroquel.

I am now at work and drunk. This sucks.

Man, I Need Some Cluck-e-tos

I am horribly addicted to the Cluck-e-tos at Farm Basket. They are horrible, filthy chicken taquito love and I could eat thousands of them. Since Fancy lives so close to Farm Basket, and his house is the stylish gathering point where Missions of Alcohol Mercy launch from, many wonderfully strange evenings begin there. Of course, the cluck-e-tos usually end up in Fancy's driveway at the end of the night.

I'm thinking about all of this mostly because I need an excuse to go to a bar with friends and get hammered, and my birthday is the only logical recourse. The last time I tried to drink my age in shots, I couldn't remember who I was for three days afterwards, but luckily, you only turn 12 once.

Dance, Suckers, Dance

I don't get the clubbing scene.

I understand the concept- wear disgustingly trendy clothes in order to pass muster with a bouncer, hang out in a dark room with obnoxiously loud music, and spend way too much on just enough alcohol to surivive. The entire point being, of course, to find a sufficiently attractive member of the opposite sex, club them over the head with an empty bottle of scotch, and drag them back to your house, where you realize they're either dumb as rocks or crazy as a sackful of assholes.

At least, that's how I envision the mundanes 'enjoying' the club ambience. Like all experiences that you pathetic normals have, mine are far superior and worthy of your complete and total adoration. First of all, I'd never go into a filthy whoretank like that without a damn good reason, and my reason was among the best- it was free. My good friend Mike's brother was the bouncer. So, for several weekends, we'd all take a trip down to the Rio Hotel & Casino and head to Bikini's, where we'd make fools of ourselves and try to get fall-down drunk before the club closed and we had to go to a bar.

It's amazing to me how many people dance. I understand that clubs are designed with such unrewarding physical exertion in mind, but I always assumed that it would be more like high school, where nobody danced and I used the empty dance floor to play hackysack with my tuxedoed friends. The mechanics of such things, what you may call the club etiquette, eludes me completely. Do you ask someone to dance? Do you just run in and start freaking someone like the scary old guy did to the slutty chick at the office Christmas Party?

Actually, that was pretty hilarious. To go on a little tangent, my last job was an SEO, and we programmers were a small clique among a horde of telemarketers. Most of the telemarketers had gambling or drug addictions, and there were plenty of scary folks out there dancing while everyone with a lick of sense was taking full advantage of the open bar.

Near the end of the whole thing, when HR was out on the dance floor trying to perform some godawful seizure called the electric slide, some old guy comes out of the woodwork and starts freaking the everloving ovaries out of this missed abortion opportunity who was too lost in trying to remember some sequence of moves to notice Mr. Belvedere trying to get all up on her internal reproductive organs. The whole table of programmers screamed horrible, obscene insults at him until he sat down. The streetwalker-turned-dancer never acknowledged any of it.

But anyway, back to the clubbing. How do people meet in those places? We were trying, at the time, to get Mike hooked up with a girlfriend to replace his horrible one, so I was interested in getting the skinny. Let me elaborate. Two programmers and a web designer were trying to get somebody laid. Take some time to drink in the delicious irony of it. Really absorb it.

The web designer was the one with the club experience and the fashion sense, so he did some pathetic white-boy 'move your fists in a circle' dance and bobbed his head around a bit. I found this hilarious, but he said it was the approved club mating dance and wandered around a bit doing that. Mike's brother let us sit up in the laughably-expensive VIP area and said he'd send some girls up.

Meanwhile, of course, I'm drunk, hyperactive, and hopping around like the secretly-bisexual asian dynamo you all wish I was. The employee drink-service girl assigned to our area is laughing at me, Fancy (the web developer) is using his little aryan chick-magnet dance to engage in conversations, and Mike is sitting there, blitzed, staring into space and probably thinking of the unholy terror he has to go home to.

Eventually, I'm drunk enough to want to start a fight, but have no idea what kind of bizarre dance is necessary to get that action started. Fancy is done trying to mingle, and has come back to tell us about how us Vegas types are wholly unfriendly and that this club would be a horrible place for MDMA. We've left VIP in order to try to find someone, anyone, to take Mike home for some loving. Right then, the lights go on and everybody files out to the casino.

Mike is swaying, literally, forty-five degrees on each side, doing that hula-girl thing with his arms trying to keep balance, asking us what we want to do next. I told him to go home. The club experience, for the moment, has won.

PS: At the Christmas Party, I won - we left and drank absinthe. Then I bench-pressed an airplane and invented magic.

The Logic Of Booze: Fallacies of Relevance

Argumentum Ad Lapidem
Dismissal as absurd without pointing out the reasons the argument is absurd.
Implying that my heavy drinking caused blindness is simply ridiculous.

Accident (a dicto simpliciter ad dictum secundum quid)
Dismissing or destroying the logical exception to a case.
I must be drunk, there's an empty bottle in front of me. (even though there are several potential exceptions).

Argumentum Ad Ignorantiam
Dismissing a subject from ignorance.
I never saw any bouncer, pour me a drink.

Argumentum A Silentio
Dismissing a subject because of lack of references in an argument; second-person ignorance.
You obviously don't know where another bar is.

Argumentum Ad Populum
Known as 'the authority of many'.
Millions of people drink regularly without a hitch, pour me another.

Plurium Interrogationum
The fallacy of complex (loaded) questions with insufficient options.
Do you still throw up after one drink? (the subject may have never had this condition.)

Argumentum Ad Temperantium
Argument of temperance; middle ground; argument of compromise.
You say I shouldn't drink and I say I should; pour me a single.

Argumentum Ad Hominem
Arguing as an attack of person.
You only say I shouldn't drink because you're a booze nazi.

Argumentum Ad Verecundiam
Arguing due to assumed authority.
Doctors are saying that booze is good for you now, so let's have it.

Argumentum Ad Antiquitatum
Arguments of tradition.
Mankind has been mostly drunk throughout history, why stop now?

Argumentum Ad Crumenam
Arguments of wealth.
If you're smart enough to know when to stop drinking, why aren't you rich?

Argumentum Ad Lazarum
Arguments of poverty.
Of course homeless people drink. They're poor.

Reductio Ad Nazium
Obvious, innit?
Booze nazi.

So if you can remember all this high flown Latin in a barroom, well, then, you must not have been paying attention.