bayonetting the wounded
(verb) The act of waking up, espically in the late morning or any portion of the afternoon, and finishing off any alcoholic beverege remains from the previous, exceptionally drunken, evening.
Why is this phrase such a perfect explaination of the incident it refers to? Well, to bayonett a wounded person is paradoxically both wicked and compassionate. On the one hand, the dude is already hurting, and to bayonett him/her (for all you politicaly correct assholes) is essentually just kicking him/her while he/she is down. On the other hand, if you kill a wounded party by bayonetting him/her one could liken it to putting a hurt race horse out of its misery.
As you gather up those cups/glasses/cans/bottles the next day, it is safe to assume you're hurting similarly to the afore mentioned wounded dude (I refuse to add dudette even if I am being politically incorrect). On the one hand, more beer/liquer/wine/mixed drink/anything containing alcohol (shit, even NyQuill) will aleviate your shakes/headache/feeling of impending death. On the other, you'll just get drunk again, only this time on something room temperature that is likely to contain backwash of friends, people you pretend to be friends with even though they're irritating, people you have never met, but somehow have been in your house numerous times, that slut who was getting laid in your bathroom, the neighbor's dog, and quite possibly, your mom, and postpone the incredible discomfort.
Why is this phrase such a perfect explaination of the incident it refers to? Well, to bayonett a wounded person is paradoxically both wicked and compassionate. On the one hand, the dude is already hurting, and to bayonett him/her (for all you politicaly correct assholes) is essentually just kicking him/her while he/she is down. On the other hand, if you kill a wounded party by bayonetting him/her one could liken it to putting a hurt race horse out of its misery.
As you gather up those cups/glasses/cans/bottles the next day, it is safe to assume you're hurting similarly to the afore mentioned wounded dude (I refuse to add dudette even if I am being politically incorrect). On the one hand, more beer/liquer/wine/mixed drink/anything containing alcohol (shit, even NyQuill) will aleviate your shakes/headache/feeling of impending death. On the other, you'll just get drunk again, only this time on something room temperature that is likely to contain backwash of friends, people you pretend to be friends with even though they're irritating, people you have never met, but somehow have been in your house numerous times, that slut who was getting laid in your bathroom, the neighbor's dog, and quite possibly, your mom, and postpone the incredible discomfort.
I woke up with my shoes on and stumbled, still somewhat intoxicated, to the bathroom. On my way back to bed from the kitchen, where I had gone for a much-neededglass of water, I found a homeless man sleeping on my couch. I immediately realized that sobering up would be nothing more than a colassal exercise in futility, and proceeded to trade my water for the nearest leftover booze. I spent the remainder of my afternoon and evening bayonetting the wounded with some homeless dude whom I've never seen again.
bayonetting the wounded
(verb) The act of waking up, espically in the late morning or any portion of the afternoon, and finishing off any alcoholic beverege remains from the previous, exceptionally drunken, evening.
Why is this phrase such a perfect explaination of the incident it refers to? Well, to bayonett a wounded person is paradoxically both wicked and compassionate. On the one hand, the dude is already hurting, and to bayonett him/her (for all you politicaly correct assholes) is essentually just kicking him/her while he/she is down. On the other hand, if you kill a wounded party by bayonetting him/her one could liken it to putting a hurt race horse out of its misery.
As you gather up those cups/glasses/cans/bottles the next day, it is safe to assume you're hurting similarly to the afore mentioned wounded dude (I refuse to add dudette even if I am being politically incorrect). On the one hand, more beer/liquer/wine/mixed drink/anything containing alcohol (shit, even NyQuill) will aleviate your shakes/headache/feeling of impending death. On the other, you'll just get drunk again, only this time on something room temperature that is likely to contain backwash of friends, people you pretend to be friends with even though they're irritating, people you have never met, but somehow have been in your house numerous times, that slut who was getting laid in your bathroom, the neighbor's dog, and quite possibly, your mom, and postpone the incredible discomfort.
Why is this phrase such a perfect explaination of the incident it refers to? Well, to bayonett a wounded person is paradoxically both wicked and compassionate. On the one hand, the dude is already hurting, and to bayonett him/her (for all you politicaly correct assholes) is essentually just kicking him/her while he/she is down. On the other hand, if you kill a wounded party by bayonetting him/her one could liken it to putting a hurt race horse out of its misery.
As you gather up those cups/glasses/cans/bottles the next day, it is safe to assume you're hurting similarly to the afore mentioned wounded dude (I refuse to add dudette even if I am being politically incorrect). On the one hand, more beer/liquer/wine/mixed drink/anything containing alcohol (shit, even NyQuill) will aleviate your shakes/headache/feeling of impending death. On the other, you'll just get drunk again, only this time on something room temperature that is likely to contain backwash of friends, people you pretend to be friends with even though they're irritating, people you have never met, but somehow have been in your house numerous times, that slut who was getting laid in your bathroom, the neighbor's dog, and quite possibly, your mom, and postpone the incredible discomfort.
I woke up with my shoes on and stumbled, still somewhat intoxicated, to the bathroom. On my way back to bed from the kitchen, where I had gone for a much-neededglass of water, I found a homeless man sleeping on my couch. I immediately realized that sobering up would be nothing more than a colassal exercise in futility, and proceeded to trade my water for the nearest leftover booze. I spent the remainder of my afternoon and evening bayonetting the wounded with some homeless dude whom I've never seen again.