If you'd like to make a call, please throw up and try again

I've slowed down just a bit in recent years. I can't quite party like it's 1999 anymore. Mostly because it's not 1999 anymore.

As a result of all my friends invariably marching toward (or even beyond) the big 3-0, there's one aspect of my life that's been lacking in recent years. And some people actually consider this drop-off an improvement. Uh-uh. Not me.

Drunk dials. I love getting them. Really!

Why? Because there's no more honest form of communication. Alcohol + repressed feelings + phone calls = awesomeness. And since most of my exes are either friends with me now or have deleted my number, I'm always happy to receive someone's inebriated honesty.

I revel in late-night communications that involve one or more elements of screaming, pining or nonsensical jibber-jabber. I can't recall, off-hand, the most recent drunk dial I received, but I'm guessing it was shortly after midnight on New Year's Day. Early that morning, my friend, who shall remain nameless, decided to call and tell me about every last emotional detail about her very single night out. Which begs the (rhetorical) question: Why was she calling me?

While I'm not always the recipient of amorous, drunken senselessness, it's been my experience drunk dials otherwise provide high comedy. Take this dramatization involving any of my male friends:

"Serrrriiiiicooooooo!!! (cheers, shouts, AC/DC song in background) WHAT UP, SERICO! Dude. Dude. DUDE! You totallllly should be here right now. What the hell are you doing right now? You suck! Why aren't you here? Everyone's asking about y-- wha??? (muffled conversation as phone rubs against shirt-like substance) Tell herrr I'll be right there. Right tharrr. HAAAAAAA. (returning to phone receiver) Dude, Mike, I rotta gun. I rot to, rot to, got to RUN. Dahhh, totally can't talk. Gotta walk, can't talk. Gotta walk, can't talk. Word to yo' motha. SERIIIIICO. Hey, let go of my--END OF MESSAGE."

However, I'm usually not a fan of drunk-dialing friends myself. Especially after, well, the public release of a high-profile journalist's supposed message for a special little lady, which, by the way, is something you definitely should not listen to in the office.

But, as The New York Times points out, if you not only feel the need to leave Natty Light-flavored voice mails for one friend, but for the entire world, you can always call 321-600-1200. After you're done, SlackerTown.com will post it on the Web for everyone's amusement/bemusement. Needless to say that there's lots of stuff on that site you don't want to play in the office, either.

My friend Rach reminded me about drunk instant messages -- a different animal that's a blog post for another time. (And do I even dare consider a drunk blog post? Hmm....)