Getting Over It

Humorists seem to have a lot to say about the subject of drinking, but when it comes to drinking's after-effects, they are by and large off the mark. "The only sure cure for a hangover," quipped Robert Benchley, "is death." That seems grimly fatalistic, even for a comedian.

The failure of witty minds to grasp post-merrymaking fallout mirrors the failure of medical minds to lessen its nettlesome effects. Here's a quick catalogue of some common remedies, though without a certified guarantee of relief.

Opinions vary on the specifics, but many agree that a long shower moderately reduces the morning-after malaise. Some claim cold is the way to go, others suggest scalding oneself. There is an hermeneutic attractiveness to this method; the circularity of liquid doing and undoing the damage is reassuring in an ecological way.

Some experts maintain that the only recourse is to nip the problem in the bud. This involves drinking copious fluids (e.g., Gatorade, Powerade, or even pedestrian water) and two of any analgesic pills before retiring for the evening. This seems to work decently; its chief shortcoming is in maintaining the level-headedness required to actually remember administering this emollient before passing out.

Shoveling a shortstack of flapjacks works like a charm, but the Royal Canadian House of Pancakes shut its doors months ago. In a pinch, head to La Rosita for a huevos, frijoles negros, y arroz amarillo. That ought to do the trick, and you can get it all for under five dollars.

The mythical elixir, with certain restorative power for those who can muster the psychological energy to undergo treatment, is the hair of the dog that bit you. A swig or three of the demon that got you there is often enough to set you straight again. Beware, this presrciption is not more the meek; sometimes it's wise to let sleeping dogs lie, especially if the dog from the night before was a Doberman.

Of course, the only sure method of avoiding a hangover is not to drink. That sort of prophylactic thinking is blasphemous; if God didn't want us to drink, he wouldn't have invented the Super Bowl. Bottoms up!

--Ross McSweeney