Captain Teague and the Cure for the Common Cold… Among Other Things
According to my fun Google homepage trivia crap, Counting Crow lead singer Adam Duritz claims in some interview that vampire Keith Richards once called his bitch-ass out for sipping chicken soup to cure a cold. Instead Duritz was given a bottle of Guinness and probably slapped in the fleshy spot where his’ balls used to be.
I don’t doubt that Guinness can cure a cold. There isn’t much Guinness can’t do. But maybe you don’t have a simple cold, what if it’s something a little harsher?
A few years ago I was going to Las Vegas—the problem was I developed this wicked sore throat. I tried a handful of thing; cough drops, cough syrups, Vitamin C’d myself until my piss could brighten the bathroom in the middle of the night without turning on a light. I even tried this all natural hippy cure of honey, lemon juice and apple cider vinegar.
You know what puke smells like? I mean a good, all night bender, puking as the sun comes up and you’re late for work kind of puke? That’s how this stuff tasted. That didn’t work either. Go figure.
I get to Vegas, throat killing me, can barely swallow, cringing when I manage to as it feel like someone’s dragging their nails down the inside of my throat, and to top it off its as hot as Kevin Smith’s ass crack in a steam room.
Don’t give me that shit about dry heat out there—hot is hot, so go fuck yourself. Since this trip to Vegas I’ve been some hot places; I took a road trip from Texas to Florida in July and that wasn’t nearly as bad as the Midwest in August—Cincinnati, I’m looking at you. I’m from Buffalo, so we take the phrase “all you can eat” very seriously. In Buffalo we eat, we drink and we eat and drink while watching foozball, so when there’s the option for unlimited food, we take it. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it was so hot in Cincinnati that myself and the other seven people I was with couldn’t eat. We couldn’t eat. We couldn’t do anything other than refill our soda and pray for death.
Long before Cincy proved itself to be a wretched and heinous bitch though, there was Vegas. I ventured out once in the daylight and that was only to buy Jameson. And that was only because none of the stores inside the three or four hotels connected to each other carried it. I had to go outside and cross a street. I think I bought a pair of sunglasses at that liquor store it was that bad outside. I only had to walk a block but I wanted to curl up and die.
I only ventured out in the daylight twice more on that trip, once because I was allowed to fire several guns, including an Uzi and a Desert Eagle—sorry, the AK was down for cleaning; and the other was because someone paid for me to go on a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon after which time I was caught in a flash flood and stranded in a cowboy ghost town where I ate the nastiest macaroni and cheese ever snot-rocketed out of some demon’s nightmare.
Yeah, that’s my luck—I go to the desert in the middle of a drought and get caught in a freak thunderstorm at the Grand Canyon that washes the roads out for miles.
Back to day one though, and I’m racing back to the hotel with my Jameo. Once back in the safety of tinted glass and central air I met up with a curious assortment of… gentlemen. Two Australians and two sonsabitches from Pennsylvania—friends of friends and cousins and study abroad friends and whatever. It’s not important. That we all came together in this wonderfully air conditioned room in an ugly as shit castle in Las Vegas was a miracle, and not just because years later I still consider these guys friends.
No, I consider this a miracle because it was that day, in that hotel room, in that asshole of the world that I learned the best cure for a sore throat is a bottle of Corona and a shot of Jameson. Or, three bottles of Corona and several shots of Jameson. Or, a lot of Jameson—
Look, my point is: if you have a cold, Keith Richards that shit and Guinness it out of your system, but if it’s a sore throat, then only the combination of some shitty Mexican beer and this most beautiful of all whiskeys, this Irish water of life, this love child of John Jameson and God, can cure you.
Posted on August 5, 2012, in Personal, Rant, Things I Come Up With When I'm Drunk, Traveling and tagged Adam Duritz, Cincinnati, Desert Eagle, dry heat, Grand Canyon, Guinness, Jameson, Keith Richards, Kevin Smith, Las Vegas, sore throat. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.