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You have so much alcohol in your system that your cabbie has to be HazMat certified.
You install shag carpet because it’s easier to hang on to. Embalming fluid would be an improvement.
Your last Breathalyzer reading was “No Effing Way.”
Distilleries fight over the billboard nearest to your place of residence.
Your friends often substitute “Good night” with “Hey, you can’t sleep here.”
When you donate blood they store it in oak barrels.
Your name is police code for Public Intoxication.
You’re fairly sure a letter to Dear Abby signed “Want To Leave the Bum, But Can’t” was written by your liver.
Your favorite drinking game is Do A Shot Every Time You Do A Shot.
Your idea of a seven-course meal is a six-pack and a pizza.
TV beer ads have started addressing you by name.
You brush your teeth with bourbon. It hasn’t helped cut down on cavities, but who cares?
You know heavy drinking makes you smarter because you can never remember doing anything stupid while blacked out.
You have a split personality—every time you meet someone with booze you want to split it with them.
You were so drunk at the office Xmas party that you kissed your own wife.
You become sexually aroused by the tapping of a keg.
You know you can use Jagermeister as cough syrup. And visa versa.
You spill so much booze at home your dog slurs his barks.
Your credit history is composed entirely of bar tabs.
You’re always shaking hands, even when there’s no one else around.
Whenever you bend your elbow your mouth snaps open.
When your boss asks you to work overtime you demand time and a fifth.
Your favorite bar is four blocks away — six blocks coming back.
The Red Cross uses your blood to sterilize their instruments.
You’re half scotch, and your ancestors aren’t from Scotland.
You know how to handle your liquor — with both hands.
You can tell what bar you’re in by the bottoms of their tables.
A liter of scotch isn't enough to invite a friend over for a drink.
You know most the of people in a bar and can’t remember one of their names.
Anyone who kisses you must legally wait half an hour to drive.
You’ve filed assault charges against a coffee table.
When you’re out in the street, you are literally “out” in the street.
You think of drinking beer as “sobering up,”
You can say “Whiskey, please” in 34 languages, but can’t understand “Last call” in English.
You know better than going near an open flame while you’re bleeding.
Your bed looks a helluva lot like a park bench, and your bedroom looks a helluva lot like a park.
You’ve been cut off during communion.
You wonder why they call it Southern Comfort when they know damn well there is nothing comfortable about being handcuffed in the back of a squad car.
Growing-up means buying better booze, getting older means getting used to the cheap stuff again.
Your bartender never has to ask, “Do you want another?”
You're favorite method of dieting is the “Slim Jim”: Ultra Slim-Fast shakes made with Jim Beam.
You fell down two flights of stairs and didn’t spill a drop.
When you wake up hungover you’re afraid you’ll die. Half an hour later you’re afraid you’ll live.
You wonder why people need friends when you can just sit in a room and drink all day.