I am trapped within the confines of my family’s sprawling suburban ranch for the evening. Oh, to be only 15 miles from Manhattan (and 300 from The DC) without any means of acceptable transportation – a cruel fate I would not wish to wish upon anyone. Except, of course, my brother, whose social plans necessitated usage of our 1990 Honda Accord. So what is a boi née boy to do on such a lonesome night as this? Two words spring to mind: Bottoms up!

Oh, not my bottom, silly goose. The bottom of a vodka bottle – or, in my unique yet not entirely unfamiliar situation, a glass of spiked orange juice coveted in the solitude (and solace) of my modestly furnished bedroom. Cheers! And repeat as needed.