The Photo

About a month ago, The Warden and her sisters decided that it was time to get a family portrait done. It had been about 10 years, three marriages and several kids since the last one, and everyone wanted a professional looking picture of the relatives to put on their walls.

After much debate and a few scheduling conflicts, it was decided that we would get our photo taken last Saturday at the ass crack of dawn. Of course, I had no input on the time, place, photographer, or even what I was allowed to wear. My only orders were to be there on time, and not be drunk (Consider this last sentence obvious foreshadowing).

Last Friday, three weeks and six days after this decree was made, we had our first real kickball game. After finishing the game, and at least a fifth, several members of our team went over to the bar.

“Alright guys,” I said. “I can’t stay out all night. We have this family portrait thing tomorrow and I CANNOT get any drunker.”

“Okay.”

After that everything is blackness. The next thing I know The Warden is shaking me awake and my mouth feels like a drier version of the Sahara desert.

“Hurry up!” The Warden shouted at me. “My whole family is going to be waiting.”

“Guy, I got it.” Was the only response I could muster as I stumbled up the stairs and into the shower.

After a few minutes of knocking over shampoo bottles, defacing the shower curtain, and almost slipping to my death, it became clear that I was still super hammered. A ten out of ten on the drunk scale. I was screwed and I knew it.

Once I accepted my fate, I turned off the water and crawled into my clothes. Though my head was pounding, my stomach ached, and my breath smelled like I’d just finished a turd sandwich, I managed to follow The Warden out of the house and into the blazing hot sun.

“It must be about a million degrees out.” I thought to myself as I walked about in the 90 degree heat. Instantly, sweat began to pour from my forehead and boozed oozed form my pores. “Well, at least the photo’s will be inside.”

Wrong.

When we pulled up to my new Hell, AKA “The place we were taking the photos”, I began to weep. The Warden’s family had chosen to take our pictures outside…in a park…about a 10 minute walk from where we parked.

As I hiked down the gauntlet of misery that took us to our final destination, I was a wreck. I felt like I was gonna die. I was rapidly leaving “drunk” mode and heading towards “hung over”, and my stomach was pissed. Hot molten diarrhea sloshed back and forth in my abdomen with each step. Cramps riddled my being, and vomit climbed towards my throat.

I was a complete disaster. Sick beyond belief. When the photographer finally lined us up for pictures I could barely keep myself alive. Thoughts of suicide occupied my mind as the sun beat down on my weathered body.

Eventually, about twelve years after arriving at the park, the photos ended and I was allowed to go home. On the way back I swore never to drink again…ever.

An oath that lasted exactly 24 hours.