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Andre the Giant drinking stories


dave-O

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awesome!

so he commissioned a customized Lincoln Continental. With the front seat now positioned about where the back seat would normally be, Andre had a little leg room. He carried his luggage and wrestling gear in the trunk and towed his necessities in a trailer. Lined with plastic tarps, the rickety trailer was filled with ice and cases of Budweiser tallboys. As he cruised the nation’s highways, Andre kept a case on the seat beside him, stopping only for food, more ice, and another case or two if he ran low.
the two huge wrestlers attacked a pair of horse-drawn carriages. Dusty threw a handful of paper money at one driver while Andre hauled the other from his seat with one hand. While one driver cursed and the other scrabbled around on the ground collecting his windfall, Andre and Dusty thundered off in the carriages. They raced through the Manhattan streets, dodging cars and pedestrians for fifteen blocks before ditching the carriages and lathered horses a block from their hotel. By the time the cops arrived, Andre and Dusty were enjoying snifters of brandy in the hotel bar, appearing as innocent as angels. The next day, they main-evented another card at the Garden. Another sell-out. Two pros at the top of their games.
Think about it: 119 beers in six hours. That’s a beer every three minutes, non stop. That’s beyond epic. It’s beyond the ken of mortal men.
The time arrived, and the anesthesiologist was frantic. He had never put a person of Andre’s size under the gas before and had no idea how much to use. Various experts were brought in but no solution presented itself until one of the doctors asked Andre if he was a drinker. Andre responded that, yes, he’d been known to tip a glass from time to time. The doctor then wanted to know how much Andre drank and how much it took to get him drunk.

“Well,†rumbled the Giant, “It usually takes two liters of vodka just to make me feel warm inside.â€

And thus was a solution found. The gas-passer was able to extrapolate a correct mixture for Andre by analyzing his alcohol intake. It was a medical breakthrough, and the system is still used to this day.

even as a youth he knew that his disease would dramatically shorten his life. He knew there was no cure, and lived every day with the understanding that death could shamble around the very next corner. Knowledge of this sort can darken a life.

It did not darken Andre’s.

He chose instead to pack his days with as much insane, drunken fun as they could hold. Instead of languishing in the darkness, he chose to walk in the sun.

Edited by Guest
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Why Drink on the Job?

Because most jobs suck. If you love your job, if the workday just flies by and you have to be dragged away from your desk at the end of the day, you don’t need alcohol. You need a psychiatrist. If you dread going to work, if the workday drags along like a crippled slug crawling across sandpaper, if clocking out feels like a jail door springing open, then a little booze can go a long way toward making a nightmarish death march of a shift seem a hop, skip and sip through a field of flowers.

You may wonder if you can actually perform your job while drinking, which is a ridiculous notion. Jackie Gleason threw together one of the greatest feats of television history (The Honeymooners) while fully in the bag. Alfred Hitchcock directed some of the finest movies ever committed to celluloid in between champagne breakfasts and gin-soaked lunches. So did Orson Welles. A prominent biographer estimates that Sir Winston Churchill spent the entirety of World War Two with a measurable amount of alcohol in his bloodstream.

And if Sir Winston could survive the Blitz, rally a reeling nation and eventually whip up on millions of Nazis, surely you can throw together a spreadsheet by Friday.

The best reason for drinking on the job arrives with the realization that a quarter of our adult lives is ritualistically sacrificed to the cruel tyrant known as Working for a Living. For most of us, it’s something we have to do, but would rather not. Drinking, on the other hand, is something we choose to do, and would like to do more of. So why not invade that which we don’t like to do with that we very much like to do? Indeed, why not have the good times, for once, spill over into the bad. Eh, sir?

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With apologies to New Rider.

Alcohol is the original social lubricant, after all, it makes any gathering loose and friendly, it has the unique and beatific ability to spin laughter and camaraderie from the dry straw that is the strained silence of the sober. Strangers become friends, friends become cliques and cliques become vast drinking scenes. It is the golden bond that connects you with most of your friends and acquaintances. It sure as hell isn’t a collective interest in stamp collecting that holds the gang together.

Drinking alone, on the other hand, is a much more pure and forthright form of imbibing, and I say that because it focuses entirely on the simple act of putting alcohol into your bloodstream. It tosses aside all the half-hearted pretensions about merely using alcohol as a social tool. It gets down to what drinking is all about: getting loaded, and by doing that, getting down to the inner you. The inner joy, the inner madness, the subconscious you, the real you.

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Can you trust someone who doesn’t drink? You can trust they won’t want to split the tab. I’m a little suspicious of people who don’t drink, unless they’ve been through rehab. I’ve inadvertently sent some folks to rehab.

I don't drink. There are 101 other ways to get down. You must live in a bubble. Sounds neat.

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