Satan Reports Snow Flurries: Kyle Drank Too Much

Your mileage may very on the "too much" part of that title.

I have no been blessed with many physical gifts. I have really bad eye sight. I have horrible sinuses. I'm very tall and very thin, the exception being my ever expanding spare tire. I have an odd nose. I have crazy teeth (and crazy in a bad way). I have high cholesterol even though I'm a vegetarian. I was born with a hole in my chest. I am frail like a bird, but without the upside of being able to fly.

But I do have a few choice vegetables in my genetic stew. One of those is my ability to drink.

Sure, I understand that being able to consume a relatively large amount of alcohol in a single evening is generally frowned upon, and with good reason. Being good at drinking makes it really easy to,well, drink. It drives Nicole nuts, in fact, because I seem to be able to drink without worry, as I never, ever get hangovers. I don't think I've gotten sick from alcohol since 2000.

Again, that's not necessarily a good thing, because once you discover you're good at something, you tend to do it more often, and while I might not get sick like most people, excessive drinking is still going to do damage that I can't see. And yet, drinking to me is like riding a bike. Again, unlike most people, I don't really have to worry about building a tolerance; it's just always there.

There is a method to my madness, though. As I mention in the book I wrote about him, one of the few pieces of direct advice my grandfather ever gave me was that I should only mix my alcohol with water, and nothing else. He told me that it was the sugary mixer which would ultimately make me sick. And, as far as I can tell, he was right.

Along those lines, I decided that I should mainly only drink one thing. Not long ago, I cut out beer all together, mostly in an effort to combat the ever expanding spare tire I mentioned earlier. And while I do enjoy red wine from time to time (more on that in a minute), and I will indulge in one of my wife's margaritas on Cinco de Mayo, I basically drink one alcoholic beverage and one alcoholic drink only: Jack Daniels.

You would be surprised how handy this has been. Jack Daniels is universal. I have, quite literally, had people take a liking to me simply because I ordered Jack Daniels. It is just as welcome in the RV lot at a NASCAR event as it is at Sky Bar in Hollywood. In my experience, it is quite possibly the most all American beverage we have, more so than Coca-Cola or Ovaltine. I have met an amazing assortment of people because of Jack Daniels, and if there's an upside to my ability to drink, it is that: meeting a wide variety of people.

But all of this is set up, really, for the main story.

As I mentioned before, I do drink red wine from time to time. I am frighteningly good at drinking wine. Many are the times when Nicole and I will split a bottle of wine, then open a second bottle, of which Nicole will have one glass and I will have the rest. It's actually become something of a running joke with us, the fact that I can put away wine like it's, well, water. I suppose that was my first mistake.

This past Saturday night, after a long, hard day at work, I decided to have some wine (sadly, I was very low on Jack Daniels). It being Saturday night, Nicole decided to have a cocktail herself, but had gone with her drink of choice, a vodka tonic. So the newly opened bottle of wine was left up to me alone -- although we do have the fancy air sucking gadgets that let you keep wine after you open it.

Anyway, over the course of the evening, I made a proclamation regarding the fact that I can just drink wine like it's going out of style. And, clearly, the wine heard me.

I finished the bottle, of course, because that's what I do. Nicole went to bed and shortly thereafter I joined her.

And then I got up to go lay on the couch and watch TV, because I just didn't feel right...

...and then I went into the bathroom and hung out on the floor next to the toilet.

The nausea would come and go, and every time I thought I was ready to hurl, it subsided. But every time I thought I was ready to go to bed, it would rear its ugly head. The cats thought this was all very strange.

In the end, it was 3:45 by the time I was able to crawl into bed. My alarm went off at 8:15 for work. And, for the first time in years, I experienced a hangover. I think Nicole (when I told her later) was just as surprised as I was.

Maybe my age is finally catching up with me. Or maybe it was a fluke. Either way, I'm pretty sure I never want to feel the way I felt Sunday morning ever again. I'd honestly forgotten what it was like.

Clearly, I'm going to have to behave myself in Boston this weekend.