Nother Friggin Day in Paradise

Jerry Kirchfeld awoke to the smell of a long gone party.  Vomit had dried on his left arm.  It was red.  Vodka cranberries, he remembered.  The alarm clock on the mantle flashed 12:00 over and over.  He was at his brother Zeb's place.  Jerry checked his watch.  Twelve-oh-two.  Goddamn.  The mantle clock was right for once.  He had missed work, or, technically, was still late for work, but he would look even more foolish going in five hours late than he would not showing up at all.  Friggin' Dougie's pissed, Jerry mused.  Fuck 'em.  Life goes on.  Jerry stumbled over to the bathroom.  Friggin' Zebbie ain't gonna be too happy about that puke on his carpet, neither, he thought.  Friggin shitty day.  Killer hangover to boot.  In the bathroom, he had himself a quick birdbath, washed his teeth with his finger, and popped a few aspirins.  A rhyme his daddy used to tell him kept going through his head, on a loop; "Here's to the future, here's to the past, here's hopin' yer ass had a hearty blast."  A hearty blast, indeed, thought Jerry, as he remembered Cheryl Feeney flashing her boobs around for everyone and their brother.  Hot damn, now that was a party.  Cheryl wasn't much of a looker, but she had some nice melons.  Jerry found some 409 and an old sponge under the bathroom sink, and trudged back out to the lazy boy to clean up his mess.  On his knees, scrubbing up puke, Jerry felt defeated.  What a friggin life, he thought.  Is this it?  Is this what I was put on this earth to do?  Get pissed up every other night, get to see Cheryl Feeney's titties, and puke on my brothers floor?  Here's to the future, here's to the past, here's hoping yer ass had a hearty blast.  Friggin hearty blast indeed, thought Jerry.  Friggin hearty blast indeedy.