This is the history of fuck you for making me soft, for making me maleable, for doing more than just testing my waters, fuck you for making the oceans of me feel so puddle at the sight of you. This is the history of my mattress, that has seen more mistakes than I am sober enough to remember. This is another man’s neck and your name whispered against it. This is not forgetting. This is trying to. This is not enough ways to give up as I thought there would be, only the one with your caller ID and a hangover. This is the history of love. This is a rare thing, a history written by one who did not win.
‘Angels of heaven, they’re coming up, what should I do? What should I do, now, so as not to die? Angels!’
And the angels burst out laughing. Do you know how angels laugh? They are shameful creatures… should I tell you how they burst out laughing just now?
A long time ago, in Lobna – at the station – a man was cut up by a train, cut up in an unbelievable way: his whole lower half was crushed to smithereens and scattered over the road bed, but his upper half from the belt up remained as if alive, and stood by the tracks, the way busts of various pigs stand on pedestals. The train pulled away but he – that half of him – remained standing there, and on his face there was a sort of perplexity and his mouth half open. A lot of people couldn’t stand to look at it and turned away, pale, with a deathly weariness in their hearts.
But some children ran up to him, three or four children, they had picked up a lighted cigarette butt from somewhere and stuck it in the dead man’s half-open mouth. And the cigarette butt continued to smoke and the children ran around roaring with laughter.
That’s how the heavenly angels laughed at me then. They laughed, and God was silent.
-Venedict Yerofeyev, Moscow-Petushki (or, Moscow to the End of the Line)
Bleak and funny and boozy and pitch-black all the way through, and then this: when Venya just ceases to exist. That’s the thing about this story: he doesn’t get a supernatural conceit, he’s not narrating from beyond the grave. Venya becomes Venya-That-Isn’t, narrating from beyond the end of history itself. He misses his stop and returns to Moscow, but the city he finds is on the other side of the apocalypse. The Third Rome that spurned its destiny and underwent a horrible transformation, spat out under Nikon’s reforms as the seat of the Antichrist. Not a Hell to Petuski’s Heaven–more of a city of The End to its New Jerusalem. So Venya staggers off the train, blinking away the remains of this morning’s brutal hangover, still half drunk and ready to give it all up, ready to change his life; but he’s disembarked in a dead world where, as the monks and mystics would say, ‘everywhere is Russia’s final moment’. Pierced through the throat and left to bleed out in an alley near the station: how else could you expect to die in this Moscow?
1000-year-old middle eastern recipe book has ultimate hangover cure
Written nearly a thousand years ago, the Kitab al-tabikh (book of cookery) is the most comprehensive work of its kind, including more than 600 recipes for culinary and medicinal dishes, including a well-known ancient Middle Eastern hangover cure, ingredients for enhancing sexual performance, and dishes for curing a range of health problems.
Drunken Bolsheviks and the Greatest Hangover in History,
On October 25th, 1917 Bolshevik soldiers and sailors stormed the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, former home of the Russian Czars. Among the wealth and grandeur of the palace, the revolutionaries stumbled upon perhaps the greatest treasure of the Romanov Dynasty; Nicholas II’s personal wine cellar, which housed the largest collection of fine wines, liquors, and cordials in the world.
Having thousands of heavily armed men and civilians in the proximity of the largest cache of booze on the planet was certainly a big problem for Bolshevik officers and politicians. Already Bolshevik soldiers were carting out kegs and bottles, beginning a Bolshevik boozing spree that would quickly get out of hand. At first Bolshevik leaders considered blasting the cellars with high explosives, however it was feared that this would severely damage the palace. Finally Bolshevik leaders ordered the cellars be barricaded and placed under heavy guard while the booze was disposed of. At first the booze was hauled out in crates to be dumped, however convoys tasked with this duty were ambushed by drunken soldiers and civilians. Finally it was decided to simply pour the booze down the drain. This plan failed when people by the thousands gathered around the palace drains with buckets.
Finally, the large drunken Bolshevik mob stormed the Winter Palace a second time, easily overwhelming the guards and overrunning the cellar. Immediately, St. Petersburg erupted into an orgy of drunken rioting and looting. Boozed up Bolsheviks began fighting or having sex in streets. Rape and murder was common, so were brawls and shootouts among heavily armed soldiers. Many people were killed by stray bullets as soldiers fired their weapons into the air in celebration. Martial law was declared and a Bolshevik army was dispatched to gain control over this situation. However, this did little as many of the oncoming soldiers joined in on the fun. After about a month of alcohol induced chaos, the booze ran out, and order was restored in St. Petersburg. The resulting hangover must have been terrible.
I may have the worst hangover in the history of hangovers and possibly only remember bits and pieces of the VMAs, but on the plus side, I get to say Snoop Dogg gave me an award and I made out with someone hot last night.