October 19th, 2004


My Liver.

Buddy chugs a bottle of soju just before MCing a wedding reception. I point and giggle like a dumbass.


Girlfriend bought me a bottle of ridiculously overpriced Asian medicine. Ninety bucks for these tiny brown balls that resemble chocolate-coated rabbit turds. Apparently they’re made from the crushed shells of a certain species of enchanted Japanese oysters that are harvested by aquatic Smurfs.

“It’s to help keep your liver healthy and prevent hangovers,” she said.

“You make it sound like I’m an alcoholic or something,” I replied. “Besides, my liver is God-like. I get, what, like one hangover a year? Superman doesn’t have a mightier liver. I truly appreciate your concern. But please take these bunny turds back and get a refund. Then buy me a steak dinner.”

True, I have been drinking more than usual as of late. But at the most, it’s two or three nights a week, which is less than your typical young LA advertising person and more than your typical young LA preschooler. Nevertheless, because of all the weddings and birthdays this month, I have been trying to pace myself.

Take Friday night, for instance: I decided to take it easy and spend a quiet night of playing poker. Bam. Next thing you know all the guys ended up at a club. On the minus side, the place was inundated with male genitalia. On the plus side, it was extremely dark and there was a bottle of scotch in front of me. What would you do in a situation like this?

Well Ed, you’d reply, I’d drink myself blind. And then I’d say, Livejournal reader, you’re absolutely correct, and quite buxom.


“Wait a minute,” my liver said as the first shot hit my mouth. “Tonight’s neither a wedding or birthday. Brain, you’ve got to put a stop to this.”

“What makes you think I call the shots around here?” replied my brain. “Every body part, except you it seems, knows that the penis makes all the decisions.”

“Mr. Penis,” pleaded my liver. “Can’t you postpone the alcohol until the wedding tomorrow?”

“Take a look around this joint, you pussy,” shouted my penis. “There’s too many fucking guys, the music blows, and the women are tragically hideous. Now sack it up and take those shots for the team. Didn’t the girlfriend buy you those little turd pills anyway?”

At this point my small intestines and left testicle broke into song, but I don’t remember the lyrics.

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