Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. You learned your ABC’s circa…umm…19 years ago. But really? A is for apple, B is for boy, C is for cat? Sooooo lame. So despite not posting for around a month (I’ve been busy okay?! Get off my freakin’ back!), I’ve taken a Saturday morning—in honor of the last tailgate—to do a little pre-gaming and a little pondering and compose an alphabet that’s a little more…relevant.

And by that, I mean completely inappropriate.

If you have suggestions for better options (B is for beer?! You maverick!), feel free to comment below. Or…ya know…don’t.

Some things require silence: Watching movies …playing the quiet game…library-ing. Drinking does not. It begs for the opposite actually, because no one wants to hear you gagging on your shitty vodka. You need music. Loud music. But I’m not saying you enhance your beer pong with some background Beethoven, play power hour to polka or hire a flutist for flip cup Friday. So here you go—I’ve decided to share with you my Top 10 for intoxication.

(Because for some reason combining tequila and techno sounds dangerous and the thought of you doing it unsupervised worries me.)

Who hasn’t been there? You decide to have one drink (just to calm your nerves, of course) before the first date with that sexy single you bonded with at Starbucks over a mutual disgust of soy milk. Then—perhaps because they stopped for flowers or perhaps because they’re an inconsiderate asshole—your date’s running late. The clock is ticking, your left eye is starting to twitch, and all of the sudden that classy glass of Chardonnay turns into six vodka shots in your kitchen –inevitably leading to an inappropriate attempt at a massage in the parking lot post-mini golf.

I haven’t technically entered the real world yet, but if TV has taught me anything (and God knows, it totalllllly has), it’s this: work makes you want to drink. Where does every sitcom character end up after a day on the grind at their 9-5? The bar. (Except Friends, but I’m reasonably sure Gunther was lacing that coffee with Baileys, anyways.) Cartoons? Same deal. I mean can’t everyone conjure up an image of Peter Griffin throwing ‘em back or Homer Simpson chugging some Duff at Moe’s post-work? Then you’ve got your dramas—Mad Men, for example. Hell, they even drink AT work.

Okay, not really. But let’s be real, the most-uttered phrase downtown and most commonly used pickup (and attempted pickup) line is absolutely “Can I buy you a drink?” My favorite six words…to hear, not say. Then, of course, comes the standard Q&A, get-to-know-you-so-I-don’t-feel-slutty exchange. Here’s an example:

“What’s your name?”
“Becky.” (Bats eyelashes)
“What’s your major?”
“Engineering.” (Becky’s a smart biatch.)
“Where are you from?”
ETC. ETC. ETC.

It was that time of the year again.

We were glued to our couches, Discovery Channel’s ratings soared and although it was over 100 degrees, suddenly no one had any desire to go to the beach.

Hellllllloooooooo SHARK WEEK.

And in celebration of this passed holiday—a marathon of mind-boggling maritime marvels—I couldn’t help but wonder….

How can I incorporate drinking?

Because I don’t know about you, but bloodthirsty sea creatures make me wanna party.

GREAT WHITE…RUSSIANS

Monday’s suck.

Novel concept and uncommon complaint, I know. But I mean you’ve got Thirsty Thursday. Then you’ve got Friday and Saturday, which are obviously the weekend. Then comes Sunday Funday. Tuesday is all about dollar beers or wells (depending on which frat-infested venue you opt for). And Wednesday is not only humpday (cheers), but it’s also close enough to the weekend to drink without judgment. Butttt Monday…

First of all…my bad. I had a slight hiatus but let’s just say that I’ve been busy doing a lot of…research. And have you ever tried to do ANYTHING with a hangover—much less WRITE anything? Exactly. Anyways, here we go:

You’ve grown up and you’ve moved on.

Juice boxes have been traded for boxed wine and Spec’s is the new Toys ‘R Us. Barbie’s been Ebay’d for beer money, GI Joe has been replaced by a dependency on G-I-N and My Little Pony has been feeling very neglected since you discovered my little pony keg.

But it doesn’t have to be this way.

I had every intention of having a rowdy Fourth of July. I had big plans involving the three B’s (booze, boats and bros)—all while wearing an American Flag bikini, naturally—and then of regaling you with tales of star spangled shots of liberty liquor and glittering goblets of founding father Franzia. Hell, I was even stoked about some Bunker Hill beer bonging—British victory be damned.

But alas, it was not to be. Because I, my friends, am a Fourth of Ju-liability.

I’ve long been searching for a pen name, on the hunt for a moniker to write under. It’s not that I’m not fond of my actual name; Sam has served me pretty damn well for the last 22 years. It’s the fact that—believe it or not—apparently real jobs aren’t impressed by a Google search of your name that yields such responsible, professional results as a suggestion about the best places to eat when you’re drunk at 3 a.m. and an account of the horrors you discover the morning after a night out.

In an older post I mentioned that there was nothing more fun than drinking on wheels. Welllll…I lied. After my wonderful weekend, I recently remembered that there is: drinking on a tube, floating down the river.

I promise this whole blog isn’t going to turn into a Dr. Seuss-esque “I would take shots on a plane, I would take shots on a train…” series (that IS how it goes, yeah? Hmm…maybe that’s more a prescription you’d get from Dr. Dre), but I couldn’t resist one more post about my new favorite way to kick back and keep cool this summer—floating the Comal.

There's a special time every morning, after a night out, that I affectionately refer to as the thirty seconds of terror. You wake up--hopefully in bed--and run through the checklist. Mine usually goes something like this:

--Crap! Where's my phone?! "Megannn! Megan! Call my phone!" Phew--it's right there. In the fridge...hmm..

--Shit! My wallet! Where's my wallet?! (Then usually "KATE! Where's my wallet?!") Oh. Oh god. Thank god, it's right there. In the bathtub? Hmm..

--Uh oh! Uh oh...where's Aly?! On the couch. Okay, well that actually makes sense.

Two words: Jello shots.

There's so much to love about these little guys. I mean, first of all--who doesn't love Jello? It's wiggly, it's jiggly and I'm pretty sure Bill Cosby used to appear in the commercials. If that isn't a legitimate endorsement (the Coz and his sweater collection wouldn't rep just any product, I'm sure), then I don't know what is. And there's something about eating jello that makes you feel kind of ridiculous and kind of like a five-year-old...or a toothless old man...or like you just got your wisdom teeth out. And who doesn't love that?

It’s Thursday, it’s 9:01 pm, and you…well, you didn’t get your shit together.

Glorious Texas alcohol law decrees, for some ungodly reason, that 9 is the magic number and liquor purchasing—and ergo cheaper consumption—is banned thereafter so you, my friend, are essentially screwed. (It’s the same deal all day on Sundays as well so you can forget about those post-sermon shooters at home.) Yes, there’s always a certain moment of terror when the clock strikes nine on a weekend and, though you won’t be turning into a pumpkin, you realize a worse fate awaits: sobriety.

A Great Game All Grown Up

A few Tuesdays ago, I discovered something glorious (that I’ve done every week since and I would’ve repeated this week had I not been—for lack of a better word—recovering from graduation weekend). That, my friends is Bingo.

Now I know what you’re thinking. I didn’t crash a kindergarten class party (creepy…but the M&M’s they always use would’ve been great), nor was I at a retirement home or a bingo hall (because last time there were…ummm…several noise complaints against me).

Sunday and Funday rhyme for a reason -- and let's be real...the only real way to get over a hangover is the hair-of-the-dog method.

So this Sunday (especially for you celebrating graduates) head out to Stubb's for the bloody mary bar. It's a drink and it's breakfast--and it's called double tasking.

And craving something sweet? Try relocating to Union Park for their mimosa specials. Bottomless-- need I say more?

There’s something about drinking on moving vehicles that—provided you’re not driving of course—just takes the whole alcohol experience to another level.

I’ve had many a good time playing power hour on a train and drinking mini liquor bottles on a plane, beer-bonging on a boat and shot-gunning in the back of a cab (note: most drivers do not appreciate this). But my personal favorite, the crème de la crème of getting wasted on wheels, is the stripper pole-adorned perennial shit show: the party bus.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday: Sixth Street.

Tuesday: Caine and Abel’s for the frat fest and dollar beers.

It’s routine for many of us, as concrete and solidified a part of the week as our class schedule. And sometimes more so—I’ll miss a Monday geography class, but I sure as hell won’t ever miss $5 liquor pitchers at Shakespeare’s.

But the thing about routine—even routine drinking—is that sometimes it gets boring. You see the same faces, you order the same drinks and sometimes you introduce yourself to people you’ve met (or made out with) three or four times already.

It was just the typical Friday night: multiple vodka waters, The Blind Pig to attempt wooing the bouncer with my embarrassing dance moves, a text or twenty I shouldn’t have sent. But this particular evening (well, actually it was about 2 a.m. by this point) instead of making the dreaded, treacherous trek up San Jacinto to make the E-bus, I ended up on 7th and Trinity. And my life was changed forever.

Epiphany in the form of falafel.

I don’t know what the actual significance of this holiday is (and I don’t really feel like Googling) , but any excuse to don a sombrero, bash open a piñata and, most importantly, break out the booze is just fine by me. Here are a few suggestions for the alcoholic in all of us for how to make this particular Thirstay Thursday muy bien:

Margaritas