It’s Monday morning. After a weekend of lubricated excess, our skulls seem just about ready to split open in jagged cranial shards, expelling the alcohol-befuddled goop inside. The universe does dizzying pirouettes about us; all we want to do is lay on the couch, watch the Sleepover Club on Nickelodeon, remark to ourselves how some of those girls are definitely long-term investments and sweat out our delirium tremens. Yet here we are, soldiering forth against our body’s most desperate urges to our loathed jobs, where being drunk is simply not a valid excuse for absence. Except in Ireland.
So I’m sure we can all relate to another poor drunkard forced to do an honest day’s work after a long night at the pub. I am, of course, talking about Mr. Orson Welles, toiling away for Paul Masson’s advertising initiative.