In honor of Brian Flores accusing John Elway of showing up to his interview with bloodshot eyes, tie askew, and smelling of strippers (ok, my words not his) I took a trip down misery lane to reminisce on some of my most poorly timed hangovers.
However bad you think your hangovers are, mine are worse. My friends say I have a distinct “hangover TKJ” smell and it normally ends with me picking various Chinese food leftovers out of my bed for the rest of the week. 99% of the time I stay horizontal for the entire hangover. But sometimes that pesky little bastard responsibility gets in the way.
Everyone’s shown up to work hungover at some point, pretty sure it’s written into the Constitution as a right of passage. There were also my three consecutive years of doing a Beer Olympics the day before St Pattys Day and then going into NYC hungover as a dog. Then there was the time I was hungover and had to move my rich uncle into his Manasquan shore house in the snow. But my undisputed worst was when the stakes were at the highest.
I had to take an unofficial physical fitness test that determined the outcome of my career. My livelihood, my way to get pay my student loans so my parents didn’t have to sell their house. My physicality can best be described as the guy who lost a step, lost three more steps. Fathlete for sure, but a 4 on my Madden stamina rating. And now, hungover, I had to complete a timed 1.5 mile run, a 300m sprint, 24 perfect pushups in a minute, 28 sit-ups in a minute, and a vertical jump. Back to back to back to back to back to back. I can’t run up the stairs to my apartment.
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