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  • Writer's pictureMr. Jamoke

The Perfect Week

Time Zone: GMT+2. European Calendar (none of this Sunday – Saturday horseshit)

 

Monday & Tuesday: Responsible days. A whopping 6 hours a day of highly compensated 1099 consulting work. Teach grateful charlatans about the niche industry things I know. Rest of the day is spent being a loving father and family man. Sneak in some exercise if possible.

 

Wednesday: Vigorous morning calisthenics followed by a hearty, three-course lunch: An aperitif, a main, and a digestif. Epic post-lunch nap featuring loud snoring and ample drool. Doppio espresso and hazelnut Milka upon rising.

 

7 PM: UEFA Champions League! Procure many liters of beer, several bottles of hard liquor, and a comical quantity of assorted nuts and dried meats. Watch game at single friend's house and linger needlessly for hours afterwards getting progressively but unquestionably drunker. Roll joints around 1130 PM, take inebriation to next level. Irish shuffle out at 1 AM. Destination: 24-hour kebab shop. Wash down kebab with half liter beer (this is Europe you fucking Puritans! I can buy alcohol and cigarettes 24-7). Stumble home with my roadie (yall know I bought 2) praying not to make noise or encounter wife upon my return. If wife is encountered: Vigorously deny accusations of inebriation despite the absurdity of doing so. If still mistakenly carrying 2 AM roadie, claim to simply be adamant about recycling.

 

“How many drinks have you had?”

 

Always answer honestly:

 

“I don’t remember.”   

 

Thursday Morning: Start the day by taking an ice cold, excruciatingly painful, 10-minute shower. Soak bloodshot eyes in Rohto Ice. Deflect disapproving scorn of family members by insisting on getting everyone coffee and breakfast. Walk 100 meters until safely out of sight. Sit down on bench and bury forehead in palm to try and gather myself. Grunt and moan loudly for up to 5 minutes or until some unnerved stranger asks if I need help. Return home and muscle through morning until toddler takes her nap. Leverage this opening to snooze and recover some brain cells.

 

Thursday Evening: Find babysitter and take wife to fancy dinner. Smooth things over with wine and listening.

 

Friday: Gather friends and family for a poorly planned Ryan Air or WizzAir-enabled trip to somewhere random in Europe. Arrive at destination mid-afternoon. Start drinking immediately. Round after round for anyone other than the children. Drunk and excited by 6 PM. Tuck kid into bed at hotel and hit the streets. No plan. No Agenda. No expectations. Let the local liquor guide you. Follow drunken instincts well-honed over decades of experience. Return at semi-reasonable hour so that the group can actually sightsee the next day.

 

Saturday Daytime: Tourism and memories and photos accompanied by gluttonous lunch and dinner. It’s ok, we are burning all the calories with our walking. Local beers peppered throughout the day for mood enhancement and cultural enrichment; nonetheless aggregating into an immoderate level of daytime drinking. Sneak into Irish or British Pub to catch Premier League action until wife rightly calls me out for being selfish. Chug Guinness on way out. Pass out at hotel by 930 PM. Let’s be honest. I am middle aged; I can no longer go hard 3 out of 4 nights.

 

Sunday: Fly home. Stop by church if time allows to atone for my decadence. Spend the day with extended and immediate family. Return home and veg out with wife by TV.

 

A week weighted toward hedonism but counterbalanced with enough virtuousness to make one feel at peace and be sustainable over the long run. A week made possible by hundreds of weeks prior to it that were nowhere near as satisfying.

 

A week apt for a winner. A life suitable for a champion.

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