This was not going to be my best day. I knew

This was not going to be my best day. I knew this the moment I stepped out of bed and fell over my shoes I had carelessly scattered around my bed the evening before. My head felt

like Chilean miners had been in it for weeks. I took my shoe and swooned under the weight of the hangover. Someone had attached a red string to the lace. It led to the kitchen.

It was tied to the big toe of a guy passed out under the kitchen table with a wrinkled note in one hand and Stoli in the other. This must’ve been some party! Still hungover, I

called C. Everett Koop, America's Sir Gin General, for advice. "The best way to treat a hangover is to drink the pain away," he said. "Doctor's orders." So I grabbed the vodka and

took a swig and felt it burn down my gullet. "To Sir Gin Ginral Evooret Poop ." I toasted myself to sleep. The hangover's hangover was a cliffhanger.

And Cliff's hangover hungover until his hankering for a hunk of cheese had been satisfied by a Cliff bar wrapped in Lymburger. No more Goldschlagger for us, Sir!

Cliff could not make up his mind where to eat this cliff bar. Possibly inside a box with a fox or out there with a bear, Inside a tree with a honeybee or outside with a

weight of his older brother on his chest as he dangled a long strand of spit over his face and then sucked it back up again. How would he ever win the election if he couldn't even

get his brother to act like a human being? Two brothers. One becomes president. The other a potsmoking deadbeat draining alcohol through toast in back alleys behind churches.