Ed: Good fucking lord, people, I know that the water was merely unfiltered pond water that the Boston Water & Sewer Commish warned could potentially contain e. coli or fecal matter. It’s hyperbole. Don’t make me taser you.
NTKOG #166: The kind of resourceful boozehound who looks on a disaster (ie: Boston’s water mains flowing with untreated sewage — hey City On The Hill, maybe you should have repented a little harder!) as a source of sweet, boozy opportunity.
I am: in the habit of indiscriminately tippling beer into whatever recipe I’m making. Dude, it’s basically juice for grown-ups, right? But culinary applications are where my tipsy science ends.
I am not: drunk as I write this. Surprisingly.
A Little Context: The worst Monday I’ve ever suffered in my usually peaceful office. 80 degrees. 93% humidity. So hot you have to shower three times a day — in, just as a little bonus from the universe, water that is teeming with e. fucking coli! Between this and a variety of reasons better left undiscussed in a public forum, I spent the last half of my workday yesterday alone in the office, curled up in my exec chair, weeping outright during whatever few moments the phone stopped shrilling. Sadly, my usual coping mechanism of compulsive hand-washing was ruled out by the aquapocalypse. Huddled under my desk, slathering Purell all over my body for the sixtieth time of the day, a grand revolution. Maybe I was high on the fumes, maybe I was exhausted from sobbing, or maybe –
IN AQUAPOCALYPSE, ALCOHOL IS THE NEW WATER.
That’s one way to perk up a sucky day, right? The moment I got home, an evening of experiments at using booze to cure the unfortunate sewage-in-the-sink situation.
The Scene: Brushin’ My Teeth With A Bottle Of Jack.
Look, I’m not sure who this Ke$ha is, or how her name’s spelled on her passport, but evidently the lady and I don’t have much in common. To wit: the only dudes blowing up my phone (phone) are credit card companies; my entrance is almost entirely tangential to the success of a party; I’m pretty sure her glasses are non-prescription. The one thing we do have in common?
Okay, so it was Jim in my case. I’ve got southern roots to represent!
I fantasized that the bourbon would mix well with my cinnamon-clove toothpaste to create a hot toddy situation. Shoved the brush into my mouth, swished a bit and … huh, burny. My lips started tingling like I was on the business end of a red-hot smooch from the bad idea fairy. After a few seconds, though, mouth filled up with lather and the burning went away, replaced by a flavor that reminded me of extended-relative Christmas parties.
All was dandy until I flumed out my last strand of foam and realized, dude, I had to rinse with that shiz. Which conveniently reminded me of two things: why I rarely use mouthwash, and why I never drink bourbon.
The Verdict: I smell like a scratch’n’sniff public service announcement, but my teeth feel clean and glossy. Can’t be much worse than the flat can of Fresca I brushed with this morning. I’m totally going to do this for all remaining days of the aquapocalypse; if nothing else, maybe tomorrow’s treatment will improve my work day…
Dudes and ‘ettes, this ran a bit longer than intended, so I’m going to turn the rest of my ideas into a series. For every subsequent day of the aquapocalypse, a post on how to drunkenly survive third-world water conditions while smelling gradually more unemployable every day. (Hopefully the crisis doesn’t last long enough that I’ll have to resort to douching a la rusque. Something tells me vodka would add a whole new level to “burny!”ness.)
[Edit: whoa, wrote this last night, and now the aquapocalypse is declared over. On the bright side, now I can resume my busy schedule of recreational bathing. That said, still running my two planned water-free posts.]