Yay, finally the laptop is working again. For the last six weeks it was more virused that those groupies on Rock of Love: Tour Bus. (Not naming anyone, but I wasn't the one downloading porn from Germany...) Anyway, if you're anything like me you used the holidays/snowdays as the perfect excuse to get more hammered than usual. And more than a few of you must have experienced that annoying little side effect that goes along with it, compliments of the OLCC: Getting cut off.

  You'd think, after all these years of drinking rather heavily, I'd be somewhat good at concealing my buzz by now. Oh hell no. Three drinks in and you could blindfold me with dental floss and hear my laugh all the way to Bend. Five drinks in and I'm slurring so much I need a bib. This results in getting cut off somewhat frequently. More than my friends do, anyway. But you know what I don't do, no matter how sideways drunk and dramatic I am? Get upset about it. Because I've had to cut off tons of people in the past decade, and I understand why. My drunkeness is not worth putting the bartender's job in jeopardy. The worst thing you can do is have a hissy over it, but it happens about 50% of the time. You mature people who do this, here's what you look like: "What? Whaaat? But I want another drink! Get me another drink!" (Pissed off, eyes bugging out) "Whadaya mean no? I ain't drunk you bitch! This is bullshit! Aaahdaahh!" (Huff, puff over to friends) "Let's get outta here! That mean bartender cut me off for no reason! She ruined our whole night! I'm gonna complain to the manager about you!!"

  Dang you fucking baby, can I diaper you now? If I give you your binky will you stop crying? And FYI: having a friend plead your case does not work. Neither do threats. For all you bartender knows an undercover OLCC agent could walk through the door any minute, and the last thing those dickwads need to see is you holding a drink, doing your Anna Nicole impersonation. You weren't cut off because the bartender's trying to oppress you, she's just trying to cover her butt from getting a big, fat fine.

  Which brings me back to the last time I got cut off, at the Hawthorne Strip on Christmas Eve. Our blond bartender decided I'd had enough because apparently I was walking like I was wearing stripper shoes for the first time. So she leaned over the table and said: "Now no more for you after this. This is your last beer. Okay?" very slowly and sweetly, like she was a patient preschool teacher telling me not to eat my crayons. My friends hid their smiles in their drinks. "Okay." I said. She looked at me suspiciously for a moment, waiting for me to argue or protest or at least pout. Nope. Merry Christmas. Outside my friends gave me shit about being the only one cut off and made a game out of talking to me like I was five the rest of the night. Fuck it. It's just alcohol, and trust me, Portland wil make more.