Salvation, Smurfs and sauce

I am currently in the throws of what can only be described as the worst hangover I've had all year. Being in my mature mid-20s, I've grown less and less fond of going out and of the inevitable costs (both financial and physical).

Last night was to be a night of dining out with friends and good conversation. I had absolutely no intention of getting drunk, but you might have missed that point from my careless mix of whiskey, wine and beer. It gets worse.

My friends and I started our evening at PF Chang's. While waiting for our table, we ordered a round of Jack and cokes. And then another round. We paired our dinner with red wine (three glasses total for me), then journeyed to the well-hidden Castaway in the hills of Burbank, where more bottles of red wine followed (two glasses per lush).

Once Castaway called last call, we sojourned to our favorite British pub in Studio City, where I drank beer like I was dying the next day.

Fast forward to 2 a.m. My car was parked back at Burbank in a parking garage. In my less-than-coherent state, I floored my kitten and subsequently ran my tire into the curb of the lane divider. I knew I was fucked when I heard that horrible blow out sound. But I thought, "I only live five miles from here. I can drive home and put on the spare in the morning."

Apparently the Burbank PD thought differently, as I saw those stomach-churning red and blue lights in my rearview. I guess she saw the smoke coming from my rim as it paved the street.

Instinct told me to immediately put on my eyeglasses so that I would appear smarter and, I guess, less drunk. Through a miraculous act of God not seen since Mary got morning sickness, the officer didn't even look at me. She merely looked at my tire, asked where I was headed, and told me to call for someone to pick me up.

In my slurred speech I thanked her profusely, if not obnoxiously. She hightailed it back to her car without so much as a "Drive carefully." Maybe she was off the wagon, too, and felt a kindred bond.

Whatever the case, I'm now car-less for the day with thousands of smurfs banging their smurf hammers in my head. Still, I got off easy.

God exists, and I've seen the error my ways. And I'm never, ever drinking again.

Ever...