Booze Hags, we all know one. Unfortunately I know my fair share of a few and it’s at this time of year that they really kick it up a notch in what can only be described as a drunken fanny fest of the worst kind.
Now I’m not talking about nubile young ladies here who we all know can’t do anything but get shitfaced in their downtime to help ease the tremendous pressures they must feel in being young, attractive and having the world as their oyster. No, these are women in their mid thirties who have been doing the same thing for twenty odd years now and really should know better.
Now I’m not talking about nubile young ladies here who we all know can’t do anything but get shitfaced in their downtime to help ease the tremendous pressures they must feel in being young, attractive and having the world as their oyster. No, these are women in their mid thirties who have been doing the same thing for twenty odd years now and really should know better.
I love them all but fuck me, somewhere along the way common sense went out the window with the last pizza chunder and instead of growing up and getting on with life, they’ve quite possibly drunk more in the last ten years than in the first. Which is okay I suppose, each to their own, but I’m always torn between saying nothing and simply deleting them as a mate from the likes of Facebook and thus ‘ending’ years of friendship, or just slapping them the hell out of it.
These are intelligent, attractive (well some of them anyway) women with good careers and a lot going from them, but you wouldn’t know it by the way they act when on the ran tan. It’s then that they become like every other booze hag; getting hammered so as to score young fellas who really should be rooting girls their own age but can’t, because they’re all rooting men my age.
Yet another of life’s peculiar cycles that missed me completely, it would seem. Just like girls wanting loads of casual sex to make them feel good about themselves and doing extraordinary things on webcams...
The sad thing is that when they eventually sober up they all wonder why it is they can’t attract quality males. The answer, I’m dying to tell them, is looking them in the mirror every night after they’ve had a few (bottles of wine), but I fear it’s too late for sarcasm; these ladies are long past the point of a positive intervention. Only Mr Jug Cord can solve this issue, like the so many that he has resolved before...
Of course Booze Hags find great comfort amongst the drunken hordes of young girls that they long to be, but it seems to be that here in NZ at least, even that particular sisterhood of the accidentally soiled pants is on its way out, with a number of New Years venues segregating the young, pissed daughters from their older, pissed sisters. I guess they’ll have to drunkenly root someone their own age this New Years huh?
For me, this New Years Eve will be much like the last ten; in bed by 10.30 with only a passing thought of asking the missus for a quickie. In fact I haven’t partied like it was 1999 since, well, 1999, when I was such a special guy that I partied by myself in a motel room in New Plymouth. That night I polished off three quarters of a bottle of Jack Daniels (in very small shots) and spent most of the night imagining I was cutting it on the dance floor impressing Booze Hags.
Yep, I totally missed that life cycle.
These are intelligent, attractive (well some of them anyway) women with good careers and a lot going from them, but you wouldn’t know it by the way they act when on the ran tan. It’s then that they become like every other booze hag; getting hammered so as to score young fellas who really should be rooting girls their own age but can’t, because they’re all rooting men my age.
Yet another of life’s peculiar cycles that missed me completely, it would seem. Just like girls wanting loads of casual sex to make them feel good about themselves and doing extraordinary things on webcams...
The sad thing is that when they eventually sober up they all wonder why it is they can’t attract quality males. The answer, I’m dying to tell them, is looking them in the mirror every night after they’ve had a few (bottles of wine), but I fear it’s too late for sarcasm; these ladies are long past the point of a positive intervention. Only Mr Jug Cord can solve this issue, like the so many that he has resolved before...
Of course Booze Hags find great comfort amongst the drunken hordes of young girls that they long to be, but it seems to be that here in NZ at least, even that particular sisterhood of the accidentally soiled pants is on its way out, with a number of New Years venues segregating the young, pissed daughters from their older, pissed sisters. I guess they’ll have to drunkenly root someone their own age this New Years huh?
For me, this New Years Eve will be much like the last ten; in bed by 10.30 with only a passing thought of asking the missus for a quickie. In fact I haven’t partied like it was 1999 since, well, 1999, when I was such a special guy that I partied by myself in a motel room in New Plymouth. That night I polished off three quarters of a bottle of Jack Daniels (in very small shots) and spent most of the night imagining I was cutting it on the dance floor impressing Booze Hags.
Yep, I totally missed that life cycle.
The morning after the night before *shiver*
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