zombieelvis

Ugh.

So last night I get safely tanked up on whisky. Nothing unusual there. I don't take drugs, cos I'm a big wuss, but I do drink rather heavily. Some may say to excess. Members of the clergy may add 'to a satanic volume that would embarrass the devil himself'.

Last night was one such occassion. And this I did in the full knowledge that it wouldn't matter because there was no chance of any sexual escapade with My Good Lady Wife, so it didn't matter if Little Elvis wanted to snooze the night away - he wasn't going to get disturbed. And the reasons for me being confident about putting Little Elvis to slumberland with a bottle of Bells and some quantities of fizzy beer were thus:

1 - My Lady Wife's dad is over, staying the week on the living room floor directly below our room, and I haven't been allowed to breathe in bed in case he hears and interprets this as a weird sex thing.
2 - My Lady Wife is currently on the blob. In fact, so heavily is she on the blob that I suspect her every movement is being directed by Wes Craven.
3 - We'd had an almighty row not two hours before, in which My Lady Wife brought up an adultery I committed (and was stupid enough to confess to) last year, thus disabling any basis to my argument and giving her an almost orgasm-like satisfaction in silencing me.

It's the Holy-Trinity of reasons why you're not going to have sex and can therefore drink yourself to flaccid heaven.

However, things didn't turn out quite as I expected. Holy Trinty of reasons acknowledged, by the time I went to bed I also stank of whisky and had pissy dribbles right down my legs. So I collapse into bed and promptly glue my face to my pillow with Drunkard Drool, knowing I'm safe and don't have to perform.

Wrong.

My wife is feeling unusually frisky (possibly still reeling from the sexual ecstasy of silencing me earlier on). With a grope and a caress, she tries to wake Little Elvis. But Little Elvis is fast asleep. As is Zombie. So, knowing certain mantras and concoctions of mystical druid chants that have been known to stir Little Elvis in the past, My Lady Wife whispers delightful words of sin into my ear.

However, at this point I'm far away, beamed up to space by a strange craft powered by whisky and populated with an evil crew of gut-sucking aliens. So when My Lady Wife whispers her delightful words of sin into my ear I don't hear them correctly. Whatever it is she says (these words are guarded by mystery, but do involve certain catholic rites and icons) is stolen by the aliens in my dream. Whatever she has said has been translated from words of naughtiness into:

'We are the Nebbleharjj Gargglbltaa of Optimus Eight in the Harjongg Galaxy. And we have come to eat your SPLEEEEEENNNNN!'

At which point, I wake, leap out bed and start screaming like a diseased, hysterical lab monkey. My Lady Wife's dad wakes too and runs up the stairs, wondering if a small animal is being slaughtered, the kids wake and start crying in their respective beds, and the dog sets a-barking. I'm stood there with Drunkard Drool down my face and Little Elvis - who has also been woken up by the shenanigans - poking out of my piss-stained boxers, convinced aliens are about to tear apart my innards.

Well.

You can imagine my embarrassment.

So, here's the predicament. All my previously accepted systems of knowledge about when it's safe to let Little Elvis sleep the Sleep of the Blended Malt have been destroyed. I would normally venture that tonight I'm onto a sure thing about drinking anti-social amounts of alcohol because Little Elvis won't be disturbed.

Or will he?

And all this confusion just makes me think I could sure do with a glass of something now.