Too drunk to witness Trump getting elected (but not drunk enough to forget it happened)

It all started with a hot date at Boston Pizza. I had my secrets, they had theirs. We picked each other’s brains from one in the afternoon until the sun tripped down the stairs and blacked out. Eight beers, a bottle of port wine, a chipped tooth, gorilla glue, and a spicy pizza I paid for, but don’t remember at all.

I apparently tried to call an Uber, and reached Doug before I was informed that 780-756-7711 (dial this and ask for Uber or Doug) is not Uber. After being thrown in someone’s backseat and dragged up a set of stairs, I immediately hit the bong. I sucked like a newborn then ran for the trees to retch away from the driveway. It was almost as bad as the high school party at Ruslan Fedotenko’s house when the world was spinning so violently clockwise that I had to hang onto a pine tree to keep from passing out. After I puked like hell, I managed to stand up, crawl inside and collapse on a couch coated in cat hair. All the while my friend Jeff yelled about “Commies!” so obnoxiously and persistently that Kyle’s NDP-voting parents had to call Jeff’s dad to drag him out of the house, after which Jeff’s dad showed up and had no choice but to knock out his drunk son so he’d finally get in the car, “and for christsake, and don’t you dare wake your mother.”

The last thing I remember after slapping the mud off my pants and finding the right house was Boston Pizza screaming at me “They’ve already counted the rural vote! He’s ahead!” I said “Bullshit man, he’s old as the air in my tires and his face is a scrotum” and passed out on the couch mumbling about the Book of Revelation.

Apparently a few people came over but I spared myself the anticipation of getting going to where the party’s getting going and the hot shame of being the most incapacitated. Everyone left and I was cold and I crawled into the closest empty bed I could find, and I missed the entire election.

At four in the morning, Boston Pizza came back white as a virgin’s panties and sat on the bed with their laptop. I hauled myself out of bed, and there it was, Donald Trump was going to be President of the United States. And before you could brag about sexual harassment, my guts rocketed out of my throat and I threw up on the bed, on the carpet, on Boston Pizza, on their laptop, on myself, and everywhere else on my way to the toilet, after making stops in the laundry room and the other bedroom.

Go home, America. You’re drunk as shit.