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Experiment #27: Booze

The following was an experiment into the realm of comedy. This experiment was an attempt to prove a theory. This theory, which was proposed to me by a man who lurched out of the shadows smelling of fish while I was walking downtown at midnight, is as follows:

"One is only truly funny when they are destroying brain cells with booze."

As this article was written, two things were in front of me---a state of the art computer and a rum and coke. As I proceeded into the body of this text, I downed one whole glass of rum and coke for each paragraph completed.

The following is the collected writings from that experiment:

Well, I'm into the experiment now I'm completely sober, and my writing seems to be going along at a steady, concise pace. Yet, I am not, as yet, writing in a humorous tone. I will now end this paragraph to begin the drinking.

Oh boy, that is strong. Wow, so this is what it's like to be Boris Yeltzin in the morning! Wow! That was nowhere close to funny! Let me end this paragraph once again to get my blood alcohol level up.

Yes, er, that's booze-licious! I think it would be tasty if I didn't have my taste buds burned off. Not only did I just get the hair of the dog that bit me, I think I got the hair of his vet! Ha Ha Ha! That sucked. More drinking!

Grrrgaghgllll---and they say that drinkgin is bad for you! I have never flet meore alive! Wow! The colors and shapes and the floating, severed head of Dean Martin! That Dean, he---was suave, yet had difficulty standing. Thorazine!

I am such good lamppost. Look at the pretty letter thingees that I can put on the pagie. No Body Elsie can write owrds same way me can! Mmmmm·plligim! Plig, plig, glip,giglpliglipg!

Kjlkljkjllllekal Ooops, just seemed to typee all those let ers in without making a word! Oh, and fyickin spell check keeps putting all thise ficking red Charlie Brown zig-zags underneath all my words. Bastard Spanish Pirates, they can't tell ME how to write my own writing! I shalll destroooy the cows! Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

I HATE ME! WHY DO IEVEN LIVE! I AM TWENTY-THEE AND DRUNK AND SINGLE AND NOT KING OF BRUSSELS LIKE MANATEE! ME MAKEENOTHING MORE OF WHAT ME WANTS! DREAMS THAT I WATED TO GET DONE IS DED, LIFE IS A DISCARDED POKE'MON .

Okay, um, I don't know what has happened in the past 2 days. I woke up twenty minutes ago with a splitting headache in the local convenience store dumpster covered in gummi bears, with a picture of Larry Hagman stapled to my chest.

I have only just now gotten back to my house. My room looks like a Rorschach test---unidentified piles of organic matter are splattered about, and one cannot walk safely on the floor for fear of bodily harm.

On the wall is the message "I AM DE LIZERD SENATOR" burned into the wall by what looks like a blowtorch. Unfortunately, it's in my handwriting, so there is nobody to blame but myself.

After careful consideration of the facts, I have come to three conclusions:

1. Considering that I'm not that funny to begin with, and that I seemed to get progressively unfunny as the experiment went on, I would have to say that drinking actually has a negative effect on one's comic ability. A few more drinks and I surmise that I would have become Bob Saget.

2. Staples are difficult to remove from one's own rib cage.

3. Drunken strangers know little about comedic theory.