I invented* a drink last night. It’s called RUMQUIL. It has to be like that, in all caps, because lowercase letters do not accurately represent the intensity of RUMQUIL. Oh don’t be alarmed, RUMQUIL isn’t yelling at you. It’s just staring at you with large creepy eyes. If RUMQUIL had a mouth, it would lick your cheek, then return to staring at you.
Here’s the recipe for RUMQUIL:
Combine one shot of spiced rum with one shot of Nyquil. Drink very quickly. Chase with one shot of spiced rum. Chase with another shot of spiced rum.
In case you were concerned, I am not an alcoholic who was scouring medicine cabinets for anything containing alcohol. I know it may sound like that, because who drinks spiced rum unless it’s the last resort?, but in fact, I really don’t drink very often.
Tangent alert! Here’s why I don’t drink very often– I like to avoid awkward situations and hangovers. I got drunk one time in 2010 and it was New Year’s Eve. I spent the evening with a handful of friends, one of whom was Vacation Fling. That’s not his real name, by the way. So anyway, I don’t remember much after the fifth pineapple/vodka but anonymous tipsters calling in on a hotline tell me that there was some uh, flinging, between Vacation Fling and I. Which, that’s not so bad, as I do enjoy getting flung, but what’s awkward is when you regain consciousness at 5:30am and look around and wonder why the fuck there are Nerds candies everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and then you have to commence the Walk of Shame, which is also not so bad until I got to my place, which while I was on vacation was my parent’s place, and I shame-walked in at 6am and my dad greeted me at the front door with his big smirky eyes smirking at my sex-hair and the bite mark on my shoulder (OH MY GOD MY DAD SAW THAT) and it became a Walk of Double Shame, and the awkwardness felt as big and endless as this run-on sentence. And that, my friends, is why I don’t drink very often.
Anyway, I concocted this drink for medicinal purposes. I got strep throat while in Arizona and the napalm-based antibiotics prescribed to me are not curing anything except that pesky illness where I KEEP FOOD IN MY STOMACH, and I am sick of sounding like Patty Bouvier and forfeiting sleep so that I can stay awake trying to suppress every single cough because if I let one cough out, it’s like a dam has been broken and an endless waterfall of coughs leaves me terrified of pissing off Bunk Rib and goddamnit, I only want two things: to sleep and to stop writing run-on sentences.
And so I turned to nature’s disinfectant: alcohol. Fuck you, strep throat! We are over. Rum to kill the strep, Nyquil to keep the symptoms at bay for a few hours. And it worked! This morning I woke up sans coughing fits and raspy smoker voice! O Glorious RUMQUIL, I sing thee praises!
Except in my RUMQUIL-induced blackout, I handcuffed myself to my bed. So this morning, my kids came in when they woke up and found me, Dear Ol’ Mom, in a puddle of her own drool, handcuffed to her bed. I mean, I was alone, and clothed, but still, how do you explain that to a six-year-old and a three-year-old? You can’t recover from that. Things have been awkward all day.
RUMQUIL: Kills two things… Strep throat, and dignity.