HIQ: Hungover Intelligence Quotient
I was slurring my words, unable to form complete sentences, a screwed up syntax, barely able to even move my mouth and tongue in the correct way to ejaculate words. I had the most mild form of brain damage: a massage hangover.
Thursday was one of the more epic days of my year. Kicked it off around 4:00 PM splitting a bottle of Portsmouth Brewery’s legendary Kate the Great with my friend Derek who had actually trucked up to New Hampshire to secure it earlier in the year during KTG Day. Currently BA’s 5th ranked beer in the world, I too was blown away by it. Coca Cola dark with a beautiful smell of booziness. Tastes of sweet molasses, rich chocolate, and a little spiciness to go along with a slight fizzy carbonation and some alcoholic heat. Imminently drinkable, this masterpiece still doesn’t quite touch Surly Darkness in my all-time stout rankings, but it definitely battles for the #2 slot along with luminaries Goose Island Bourbon County Stout, Brooklyn Black Ops, and Avery Mephistopheles’.
After catching our collective breath from our Kate the Great orgasms, we headed to 33rd Street for several hours of manly drinking before entering the World’s Most Famous Arena where, getting further lubricated on The Garden’s $8 Labatt Blue pints, we watched perhaps the Greatest College Basketball Game of All Time. Euphoric in joy, somewhat sobered up being that MSG’s last call for brews was some TWO hours before the game actually ended, we headed back to Stout for some aggressive tippling and victory celebrating in that special hooliganistic way unique to upstate New Yorkers.
By 6 AM I somehow found myself in a luxury hotel room with three adorable Pitt fans I’d met earlier in the day, polishing off overpriced mini-bar M&Ms and impromptu vodka and Ocean Spray cran-whatevers. I awoke the next day in the Park Avenue establishment feeling like I’d taken a shotgun blast to the head. Still reveling after watching the greatest event ever in the history of tattooed pituitary cases placing round objects in peach baskets, I triumphantly walked up 42nd street, a slight limp in my gait from a groin pull which I’m still not certain whether I acquired during or after the game. Still wearing my beer and sweat soaked team logo hat and T-shirt from the previous night and receiving countless compliments from spectators for picking such a grand school to matriculate at, numerous high fives were released. But I didn’t have much time to relax and recover back home on the couch, a sack of ice on my crotch, watching back-to-back replays of the game on ESPN Classic, for I had to head back to the Mecca that evening for the Cuse/West Virginia semi-finals tilt.
To say my Friday was a tough one would be putting it mild. My brain was absolute mush. My vocabulary had to be at best at a fourth grade level, we’re talking maybe two syllables max per word. Comprehending a dinner menu was tough, remembering how to take the subway tricky, understanding the rules of basketball an impossibility. My trademark wit was sapped from me and I had become a retarded dullard on par with Charly Gordon with a jaw full of Novocaine. I couldn’t even get my brain to execute the hand-eye coordination needed to simply claps my hands together after a made basket.
This got me thinking. How dumb exactly had one of my all-time massive hungovers made me? Minus 10 IQ points? 20? I’d dare say it was more like a loss of 30 to 40. I’ve never had such empathy for the dolts in this world if they have to walk around 24 hours a day like I was feeling on Thursday, their neural synapses misfiring more often than Leno during his monologue.
The stat nut that I am, I now want an actual quantitative measurement of my hangover induced dumbkopfism. I know my approximate resting, sober IQ–something I just confirmed via an online test–so from now on dear readers, any time I am moronically hungover, I will take a similar online test and see how I fare, posting the results. This should be a fun experiment.
Wow, taking IQ tests with a pulsating booze-created headache, what a way to spend a Saturday! Much more exiting than ordering in some greasy diner food and watching a “Tool Academy” marathon.