As all of your fantasy football leagues came to a conclusion this past month, chances are, your team was not crowned victorious. Odds are, you decided to draft Le’veon f***ng Bell first round.Odds are, you chose To draft Devonte Freeman second round! Odds are, you got last place in your fantasy league and now have to dress up as a giant Penis and run a 10K race. Yeah, not a 5K and damn 10K. By my expressive tone and added explanation points, you can conclude I not only drafted these two busts but yes, also received last place in my fantasy team. My core group of “friends” are utter monsters and I now have to pay the consequences for wallowing in last place. Worry not Jockeys, There will be a video to highlight my shame.
Anyways, this memoir isn’t about fantasy football. Nay, that was a mere appetizer to warm you up to what this post is really about: The Injured Reserve. Like Fantasy football, being on the IR sucks ass. In sports, athletes undergo the IR day in and day out from the continuous beating their bodies take. Just like these superstars, we as the average 9-5 jockeys can also be put on the IR. For example, having a child puts you on the IR for 3 months plus. Being suspended from work can also put you on the IR, pending your debauchery you got yourself in.
The most common thing that puts you on the IR when you grow old and enter the work force of America is drinking. Holy shit. For you young Jockeys out there, bask in these days where your hangovers become minimal. Where drinking does not affect your day-to-day life. Where beer flows like wine and beautiful women indistinctly flock like the salmon of Capistrano. The second the clock strikes midnight and you turn 25, the party is over. Sunday Funday? Only if you plan on calling out of work on Monday, which in case you have yet to figure out, calling out on Monday is prohibited universally everywhere.
If I were to partake in some extreme alcohol indulgence Saturday Night, my brain, body and mental state of consignees would not be normal until Wednesday. Hangovers morph from a day to a week. This past week I hit the town on a Saturday, no big deal. As the night progressed on, I was challenged to chug a Guinness. An old trick I used to do in college in hopes to improve my luck. (never worked)
Two years ago, this was a mere breeze in the wind. However, at 25 years old, I chugged that beer and immediately knew something was wrong. My stomach began to combust, my heart began palpitations. I couldn’t breath and began to projectile vomit everywhere. As I army crawled to the bar bathroom during the heat of the night, vomiting on all fours, I thought “why did I do this to myself.”
Long story short, I had to call out of work Monday, schedule a doctor’s appointment because of the side effects of chugging a beer. One f****ng beer. Evidently, I developed “Alcohol Gastritis” which is inflammation of the stomach lining. I asked how I got this and my doctor smugly responded, ” Guess your body is trying to tell you something, stop drinking.” I was placed on the IR for 4 days but like any great athlete, I stepped back on the field (bar) and did it all over again that Friday. The race is over, here’s to the weekend.
Categories: Booze Hounds