I’m a drinking man. That’s normal for a Zimbabwean guy. We drink. It’s our thing. Our therapy.
The problem, though, is the after-effects. All you ladies out there KNOW your man is gonna be a pain in the ass on Sunday. The known unknown is how much a pain he’s gonna be.
That’s where I come in. I’ll be your inside man (teehee), your covert operative, your Deep Throat (ok, too far).
A hungover man is a fooly little child, lolling about like his world is ending whilst suffering the after-effects of self-inflicted inebriation.
A hungover man will beg you to shoot him, because he’s been poisoned, and oh lord all he needs is a quick death right now please kill him now because he’s already dying.
A hungover man will drink every cold, sweet drink he can find in the fridge, even that box of Robertson’s Sweet Red you occasionally tap when you’re bored and alone on a Friday night.
A hungover man will crave the most random, sometimes disgusting, food. Pork bones. Bacon sandwiches. Maguru. But only in small amounts, because a full meal will make him want to puke oh shit this is torture hold my head baby whilst I worship the porcelain god.
A hungover man is, essentially, like a pregnant woman. Sometimes with the same size belly. Always with the same voice.
Take care of that man, ladies. That man is dying. He’s never needed you more than he needs you now.
If you do this well, I guarantee he’ll say “I love you” on that one Sunday more times than you’ve heard all year.
And that’s all the thanks you need, right?