Can you hold my drink while I take a picture of myself?


There was once a time when photography was an art form.

You found something beautiful, or something representative of a time in your life – be it a few blades of grass or an endless forest or a skyline or mountain – and you would snap your Polaroid and cherish it forever.

I’m not sure what led to the phenomenon that’s become one of the biggest crazes of the 21st century, but I can no longer rationalize it nor ignore it. I am, of course, referring to drinking pictures.

You know … the debaucherous, dizzying clips that make up the majority of your photo albums on the Facebooks or the Myspaces. I am guilty of it, myself. I do believe that three out of the four pictures tagged of me and posted to the interwebs also involve an alcoholic beverage of some kind. (However, I generally take pictures of things other than my drunk self, in my defense.)

As you may have found out by reading this aimless website, I have also been known to drink more than humanly tolerable on occasion.

However, unlike you, Miss Triple-Kiss, I temper my drinking picture library with more pristine and thought-provoking images. Take, for example, my photos of cute and adorable kittens or my photos of the beautiful scenery of Lake Tahoe or New York City or Chicago. Or my attempts at artistry with shots of autumn colors. In my own humble opinion, these are images truly worth capturing in all their seven megapixel glory.

This, of course, is not where lines are drawn in most cases.

As it turns out – we’ve all turned into picture sluts. Taking meaningful pictures just isn’t enough. We must be in the pictures. We need to prove we were there. The problem lies in when we are not just attacking the camera in front of scenic backdrops. We don’t beg to have our profiles etched on film in front of Capitol Hill or the Grand Canyon or the French Riviera.

No, our pictures capture us at our absolute best: when we’re slinging back Irish Car bombs and Cosmopolitans down at McHangovers Pub or Excelsior 7-Level Nightclub, and we’re all hideously plastered. We’re making out with members of the same sex, we’ve got one eye closed, we’re cross-eyed, we’re hanging over a toilet, we’ve somehow misplaced our shirts, and we’re basically letting the entire world know that yes, the future of your universe rests in our capable hands.

We’re blasted on New Year’s. We’re sloshed on Mardi gras and Super Bowl Sunday. We’re cocked on St. Patrick’s Day. Additionally, we’re blitzed during Spring Break, on Easter Sunday, all through Memorial Day weekend, on the last day of school, at 27 graduation parties, at 10 weddings, on 4th of July weekend, on Labor Day, on Summer vacation, on our birthday, for Columbus Day, for Rosh Hashanah (Kabala make ya holla!) and on that pseudo-holiday night-before-thanksgiving drunkfest and Christmas Eve, plus Thanksgiving and Christmas and Hanukkah. Oh, and Cinco de Mayo, as if we don’t have enough American holidays on which to drink.

And it’s all documented. There we are, drunk and as a skunk. We’re shoving our tongue down our twin’s throat, suggestively flirting with our professor, throwing punches at a street sign, flashing gang signs at actual gang members while sneezing up vomit, and stealing pint glasses when we have Waterford crystal at home.

Yes, America, here we are: your future leaders of the free world.

We’re going to hell, but don’t ask us to drive the bus. We’ve (hiccup!) had a few too many, and well … hey, can you take my picture?


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