7 superpowers you only get when you're hammered drunk
Would you have spent all of those years not tanning in your mother’s basement, pouring over comics and superhero movies if you had known about the magical things booze does to your body? Well, our drunk clairvoyance is kicking in right now, and we can tell that’s a “no.” Just remember, alcohol is to you what radioactive spiders are to Spider Man.
Here are some of the superhuman abilities you acquire when you imbibe.
Question: How in the name of sweet baby Jesus did you get that 1,000-pound oak armoire up the stairs to your third-story apartment? Answer: Tequila. You had a margarita or 10, and look at you now. You’re bench-pressing full kegs just because you’re young and free. Look at you carrying your drunk friend home, all slung over your shoulder, like a benevolent Hercules. Look at you ripping young saplings from the ground because someone somewhere needs firewood. Sure! We’re not gonna argue with someone who just tore the boot off of his car wheel about firewood, but we are going to compliment those bulging trapezius. Do you want our lunch money?
The good news is drinking makes you animorph. The bad news is the only animal you can change into is … a sloth. Invariably, after a night out, the alcohol starts to change you, and you begin to take on a variety of sloth-like characteristics. First, you slowly droop to the floor, then crawl across it at about the same speed that mountains grow. This sharpens your fingernails to razor-sharp points that you use to prick holes in beer cans you’re too lazy to open. Next, your hair mats, you exude a stench, and your eyes swell shut, giving you the expression of a high, high teddy bear. For your final act, you fall deeply asleep for 23 hours. Cute! The only other thing you can morph into is the national monument Old Faithful, but that’s only when vodka makes you projectile vomit into the sky.
Take down a couple of tall cans, and you’re a military-grade weapon, incapable of destruction by man nor microbe. Your head is now, apparently, made of a diamond-like material that’s unfazed when it slams through a car window, and that flight of stairs that’s mysteriously covered in KY Jelly is no match for your curiously flexible skeleton. You’ve fallen off of your bike, been bitten by an escaped zoo rattlesnake, contracted Ebola and had your legs sawed off by a Mexican leg harvester, but you’re not complaining. You feel no pain; you’ve got a beer-induced force field around you. The booze just purifies and disinfects whatever it needs to, and you move on with your night despite the bear trap dangling from your abdomen. You’ll deal with it sometime in the next 240 years, because nothing’s taking you out.
Last time you checked in with yourself, you were at the bar. But, in a flash of fiery lightning, you’re suddenly in a magical world people are calling the “drunk tank.” Yes, you’ve just teleported through space and time, a trip generously sponsored by Jim Beam. Some people like to call it “blacking out,” but as far as you’re concerned, your ability to wind up in an entirely different place in what seems like no time is more of an art than something to bring up at AA meetings. As you age, you continue to hone your control over your teleportation, eventually traveling from the bar to that hottie’s crotch in the blink of an eye, so quickly in fact that you didn’t have time to catch her name. What was her name again? Whoops, looks like you just teleported to the dog house.
Unlike your sober contemporaries, you have the ability to see two of everything. Every time you down a box of wine, your world multiplies, and you see what other people can’t: 24/7 twins. That’s right, you’re not out drinking with friend, you’re out drinking with two friends who have the exact same DNA code. You’re mad popular. And when you go home that night, guess what? You’re having a threesome with that girl from the party and her twin sister. That’s four boobs to you, good sir or madame. When you go for drunk pizza, you have two slices, but feel like you only ate one. The only problem with this is that when you stumble to the bathroom to relieve yourself, there’s a 50 percent chance your roommate is going to be really pissed.
Just a few PBRs, and suddenly your mind is on another plane. You can read exactly what’s on everyone’s mind, and everyone is thinking the same thing: Arby’s or “Get more drunk.” That’s when you come around with the pitcher, and before you know it, you’re the hero. You use your wasted wizardry to foresee pizza in everyone’s future, and shit, if you weren’t already the hero, now you’re the night’s Dear Leader. To add fuel to the fire, you channel the spirit of every dead rock star that has an iTunes page and make a killer playlist that gets the party started. People are talking about making a marble bust of your head. OK, maybe you don’t have to have clairvoyance to intuit those things, but you’re wasted, and you always liked to think you had a flair for the supernatural.
The Slightly Less-Than-Golden Touch
Instead of turning everything you touch to gold like a poor man’s Midas, everything you touch just breaks. Let’s start with the pint glass you dropped on the ground, shattered, and half-embedded in your ankle. What about the neck on your ultra-rare, John-Lennon signed Rikenbacker guitar? Done for. Do you even have an excuse for the porcelain vase containing your grandma’s remains that you surrendered to gravity? Rum is not an excuse. That being said, when you’ve had some, you should wear oven mitts or a straightjacket to contain your incredible power, that is, if you want to avoid being classified as an F5 tornado. Now if only you could use your special touch on your shitty OkCupid relationship.