Brain "Lesions"

I am convinced that the "Lesion" (a.k.a. my neighborhood American Legion post) tampers with the contents of their beer. Either they lace the can lips with acid, or the cans have a semi-permeable layer that allow ghetto funk to seep in... Damn near every time I go there, I end up getting smashed and having some degree of hangover. No matter how much or little I drink!

I went there a few weeks back, drank two beers, and nearly fell out the door as I headed home. Last night, on a much less temperate outing than I typically allow myself (especially on a work night), I visited The Lesion and now have the oddest gaps in mental continuity. Did I really help up-dump a 40-gallon garbage can (filled with dirt and debris from a recent parking lot cleanup) on the way home? Did I really stop to weed my window boxes by moonlight? Did I really step on one of my poor cat's paws as I listed through the kitchen on my way to bed? And why were these longhorns (see left) wandering through my neighborhood?

All I know is that the Lesion is like my personal Bermuda Triangle. I enter innocently enough, trying to get from one place to another (i.e. the intersection of Frustration Road & Ticked Off Lane) only to be expelled into the streets a few hours later, dazed and staggering, wondering why there's no one in the wheelhouse of the shipwreck that is me.

Maybe it's the temperature of the beer. Maybe it's the inordinate speed of consumption. Could be the strains of Barry White from the juke box. Maybe it's a fermentation situation, a la the Salem Witch debacle. The Bud goes funky, and poor Ya-ya finds herself driving the porcelain bus the next morning. Who knows?

But if anyone knows why that hole in the wall joint lays me low every time I walk through the door, I would be pleased to hear your theory. Until then I'll be forced to return to the Lesion again and again until I determine the cause of my crippling intoxications.