Inauguration Drinking Game

Tomorrow, at 11 am ET, President-elect Donald Trump will officially be sworn in as the 45th president. Now to make the day tolerable, and, well, forgettable, lets do some good. So a drinking game has been created using his inaugural speech. It may not be forgettable, but you will soon forget it.

Combover Drinking Game

  1. Whenever Trump states he is the best at (insert action) : Drink
  2. Whenever Trump uses three adjectives in a row: Drink for three seconds
  3. Whenever Trump says “Make America Great Again” : Take a shot
  4. If Trump pulls out or wears a “Make America Great Again” hat : Chug your drink
  5. Whenever Trump boasts: Drink
  6. If he grabs someone by the pussy: Drink a whole bottle of whisky and hope death comes quickly instead of the four long years you would have to suffer through
  7. When he attacks his opponents: Drink
  8. Speaks with such hubris it makes you want to vomit: drink, and again, death will probably follow with the frequency
  9. Makes inappropriate gestures or comments about his own daughter: drink for the length of awkward physical exchange or five second

Maybe, just maybe, this will make the day tolerable. Maybe, just maybe, it will help us find humor in this situation. Or…we’ll all die from alcohol poisoning. I am going with the latter of the two.

Good luck keeping your glass full!

Advertisements

Check it out

A story of mine has been featured on the blog site Drinkers with Writing Problems. I thought it perfect to submit a drinking story, or a story about drinking.

 

http://drinkerswithwritingproblems.com/2015/03/03/david-jester-blackout/

http://drinkerswithwritingproblems.com/contributors-3/guest-writers/david-jester/

 

 

 

The Corner Bar

I sat at the bar. The dark, dank, smoke stained and saturated wood panel walls, create an atmosphere of comfort, and I languish in its embrace. Over the old, poly’d bar-top, hang three stained glass lamps, Schlitz mosaically emblazoned in blood red, against a field of green and yellow glass, held together by poorly soldered lead–small streaks of the poisonous metal trailing down shards of glistening colored glass. Encased by these hemispheres, dull, forty watt, yellowish bulbs, strain to brighten the room, but it is as if the lost hopes and damaged dreams of the patrons, swallow the light, which struggles against the stygian gloom. In the corner, an old, outdated, cigarette vending machine still occupies a space lost in time, as if a temporal vortex has opened up a conduit, a wormhole, transporting this bar space to the 1970s. The only update, that makes this machine modern, is the dollar changer, which is affixed to the wood veneered machine. The handle’s clear, molded plastic pull knobs, are no longer transparent, but yellowed with age, as if the  nicotine, which stains so many white mustaches of habitual smokers tawny, has jumped from their tobacco stained fingers, to the knobs themselves.

This bar, which lives in two times, torn between the old and the ever changing present–the quickening technology of this age–has a digital jukebox attached to a wall, down and across from the bar. Its blue digital light, simulating neon, encircles the device which spits out heavy metal, 80’s rock, hair bands, and the occasional indie rock song. The small confine of the bar space echoes the music louder, as there is one volume, excessive. The patrons, all lined up on stools at the bar, sitting along the wall, and standing in any open space, don’t seem to notice the deafening sound, and instead their stentorian voices commingle with the music, creating a cacophony of revolting conversation and death metal.

A ‘Gansett in hand, and cheap shot of Old Crow sitting next to it, my writing ambitions wane away. Like an hour glass, my zeal for literary pursuits are grains of sand, slowly sifting, dropping into oblivion, one astringent sip at a time. Pen in hand, and composition book open, I spill a drop of amber colored liquid, of what passes for whisky, onto the clean, virginal, white page, lined by a pale, cornflower blue. No words to spare, I tap my pen against the empty space, the void of memory, the dearth of prose, which builds a frustration inside me.

Tipping back the tallboy ‘Gansett, the bartender comes over. Her wrinkled hand touches mine as she seeks my attention.

“Nother, hun.”

“Sure thing.”

I turn my attention back to the bar. The couple sitting in the dark corner practically fucking, the hipster picking music off the jukebox, the older woman sitting next to me, her flaxen dry hair cut to a bob, they are all rich characters. These are my people, my characters, they inhabit the pages of my notebook, and find their way into my stories. They may never know it, but they will be immortalized in words, and their essence, even if it is a small, superficial bit, transferred to some literary persona. Their actions are fodder for my work, and farmed like potatoes plucked from the field, but that is for later. Tonight, I drink.

As I tip back the can, I converse with the woman next to me. We drink, we commiserate, and I find a character, the lonely barfly, the empty vessel, the lost soul, and then I wonder, what character will she play?