What holy hispanic hell is this; making me use alliteration this early into my hangover?

What holy hispanic hell is this; making me use alliteration this early into my hangover?

Day 23 (Hangover Redux)

Some days a hangover is just a hangover, and other times it is a life altering event that gets you to reassess your whole existence on a level you never thought possible. Today’s is just a hangover, but maybe tomorrow’s will bring with it a whole new outlook on life, or at least a new liver. 

Day 14 (Hangover in Harlem)

Some mornings are better than others, and some morning are actually mid-afternoons. All the kings horses, and all the kings men couldn’t put my head together again. I have two sets of prescription glasses by my bed, and I don’t think I am capable of seeing the world any better through either of them.

Bright flashes of light in a pitch black room, as I hunt for the aspirin, only to find it in the Saturday slot of a pill organizer I never bought. I certainly hope my daily meds for Sunday are better. In the Shalem Aleichem standard I am making myself a breakfast mimosa: 

voice in my head: But you have no orange juice.
me: It’s ok we will use Jim beam instead.
Voice in my head: but you have no champagne.
me: It’s ok we will use Jim beam instead.
(takes drink)
Me: this is what they call a light morning drink?  

Age old debates arise out of the sewer of my consciousness, if all the other cups are in the sink, and I refuse to do the dishes, is it ok to chase the aspirin with a sippy cup full of whiskey? 

Hangover in Memphis.

There is nothing worse than a southern drawl to go with your hangover. Fat pieces of shit stuffing their faces at the buffet. Brain dead degenerate zombies, with their belt line at their knees regurgitating the latest contraception controversy. The Chinese buffet serves fries just for them. May they all die of clogged arteries and an over abundance of pent up semen.