Folks, there are people who have a seemingly preternatural ability to consume life threateningly large quantities of alcohol for prolonged periods of time, without ever having to face a punishing hangover. I am not one of those. I admire them.

And, there are people on this earth who have an unquestionably preternatural ability to consume life threatening large quantities of alcohol for prolonged periods of time, despite having to regularly face punishing hangovers. I am not one of those either. I fear them.

I am what is commonly known as a Booze Suck1 . I cannot drink to excess without being crippled by a multi-day, biblically apocalyptic hangover. I am unable to tough it out, walk it off, be a trooper, or do anything short of lie on a couch - getting up only occasionally to vomit or shit. I share my misery. I call up friends I haven't talked to in months and force them to listen to me wretch hot, burning bile into the sink. When I go down, I go down hard, and I bring guests.

As I've aged, I've accepted this lot in life. I simply cannot go on extended drinking binges. It's sad, but true. I'm a one-shot wonder. I go big and then go home. More often than not these days, I just go home.

Naturally, The Universe often punishes me for my cowardice and sloth. The Universe is tricky and clever (an unfortunate combination for a malevolent, omnipotent predator). I am naïve and slow-witted (an even more unfortunate combination for skittish prey). On the rare occasion that I see Its vengeance coming, I am powerless to stop it. I am forced to take the hand it deals me, cower in fear, and hope it'll at least turn into a good story.

At the start of the month I ran a marathon with my good friend Shaggy D. All signs had pointed to a cosmic spanking: we hadn't trained properly, we were in poor health, and we didn't have the good sense to back down. In fact, our hubris was so grand that we thumbed our noses at the very miracle we needed. We went out two nights before the race and got polluted.

The day before the race, rather than resting and carbo-loading, we desperately tried to re-hydrate, and not think about what we had done.

Surprisingly, we survived. Not only did we survive, but we felt great. Sure, we didn't set any records - a 70-year-old man beat me to the finish line - but we did it. Obviously, we had somehow become invincible. To celebrate, we drank more booze.

That was clearly as much as The Universe was going to take from me.

The Messenger of Doom came the following week disguised as a dangerous fellow known to me as The Flying Dutchman. I have known Dutch for the better part of 15 years. On several occasions, he as served as harbinger for The Universe. On each of those occasions I ignored the signs. On each of those occasions I was bitch-slapped by my Creator.

Dutch and I go way back. We have a long standing and deep seated friendship based on understanding, mutual respect, shared beliefs, and booze. Oh God, the booze.

Dutch introduced me to beer. He introduced me to cheap wine. He introduced me to expensive gin. He introduced me to impossible crippling hangovers. He is my mentor. He is my demon.