I’m Not A Reclusive Alcoholic, I’m Just Pantsdrunk You Plebs
You may be wondering why I’m almost naked, as well as very drunk. And I’m really excited to get into this one with you, because it’s a convenient two-fer. What you’re witnessing is not only a well-established wellness routine, but it also means I get to duck the constant accusations that I’m an unhealthily reclusive alcoholic. You know, the kind of trite and troublesome rumors spread by nosy busybodies like my family and my doctor. I’m just European at heart, you uncultured swine. Read a book.
I’m talking about the Finnish tradition of pantsdrunk, of course. Which is 100% a real thing and involves being drunk without pants.
If you’re not into it, it’s probably just because of your crass American-centric outlook. A prudish, repressive worldview that puts waaaaaaay too much emphasis on meaningless things like showing up to work on time (or at all) and putting on clothes when company is around. Relax, Churchy McGee. Lemme tell you something.
I said no pants.
Actually hold up for a second. I love this song. I know it’s not cool to love Bon Jovi but come on. Come onnnnnnn. Like that thing the bassist does with the last chorus where he throws in a few extra notes to just drive that chorus all the way home. How do you not feel this? You’re no fun. Screw this.
Okay. Lemme tell you something. Churchy. Churchy Church MacGillycuddy. Mamma Jamma. Okay. Lemme say, okay. Lemme tell you something.
So like, The Netherlands. They are chill, right? So chill. Freezing cold. Chill. And their winter is like, forever. Who wants to put on clothes and visit friends when it’s cold? So they have a tradition where they just hang out at home all warm and half naked and drink. Which is good, because everyone in my life has been conspicuously dis-inviting me to their parties and get-togethers. So I’ve had a lot of alone time lately.
But you, you’re cool. You’ll stick around.
They have this word lagom. I’m probably pronouncing it wrong. Who cares. It means everything is chill. Chill like this Steel Reserve 18 pack in my fridge. You’d think I’d pick a more regionally appropriate drink but they have names like Sinebrychoff and Hartwall Karjala. No I am not slurring, that is how they are spelled. Also I may be slurring.
I said drunk pants.
Okay. Lemme tell you something. Did you know there are more heavy metal bands in Finland per capita than anywhere in the world? And they literally have custom emojis for drinking in your underwear. You want to move to Finland? Like right now? I’ll buy a ticket right now if you agree—see if I don’t. I bet I have money. Just let me call my bank. Here, I’m calling my bank. This is gonna be so awesome. I have the best ideas. We’re going to love our new life.
Okay turns out I’m broke. I’m gonna write myself a little note to save up. Just right here, a little note that reads DEATH TO AMERICA. I’ll know what that means tomorrow. Now let me tell you something.
So I know what you’re thinking: Is this cultural appropriation? You know, considering I don’t have the correct background and I’m not drinking the traditional drinks. It’s not even comparably cold outside. Not to mention I don’t know any words in the language that don’t involve alcohol. I’ve also completely eschewed any sense of balance, moderation, or well-being that is traditionally part of this introspective relaxation exercise. At the very least I can see how it could seem like a gross misappropriation of a traditional ritual to excuse my own irresponsible tendencies. I guess.
Am I a bad person? You don’t think I’m a bad person, right? Like, I’m overall a good-natured person, right? I don’t go out of my way to hurt people.
Wait, I had to burp. The Finnish are probably cool, right? Chill as a six-month winter. They’re the happiest people in the world according to science. They listen to heavy metal and drink in their underwear; why would they sweat the small stuff?
I’m gonna take a nap I think. Just like right here. The carpet feels so nice. On my face.