Rate Your Hangover Using the Vince Vaughn Scale!

It's 6:55 AM on a Saturday.  Why the fuck am I wide awake?  Where the hell am I, and how did I get here?  Why is my mouth so dry, and why do I feel so strangely awesome and yet on the verge of death right now?


A-HA!  I'm hungover!


We've all been there.  Waking up on the living room couch, feeling more or less like P. Diddy, tangled up in what seems to be a random assortment of the clothes you wore last night plus whatever blankets, magazines, and food items happened to be within reach before you finally crashed.  You check your pockets: wallet. credit cards. ID. phone. keys.  Drunk texts?  'Bitch, whatever!  My body's intact...wish I could say the same for my reputation though.'

All's good...looks like you lived to drink another day...


Staring intensely at the pattern on the couch cushion that your face is pressed up against, you hear the soothing voice of Billy Mays for the fifth time trying to get through your thick fucking skull just how goddamn earth-shatteringly awesome Mighty Putty is.  'Do you think he OD'd on OxyClean?' you think to yourself, 'WAIT A SECOND! HOW DID I GET HOME?!  I remember I drove to the bar...uh oooh...'


You jump up to check outside the window for your car, but after that first step, your head gives a nasty throb and it feels like a raccoon is trying to claw its way out of your stomach.  You immediately fall to your knees in front of the TV, curling up into the fetal position, that bastard Billy Mays staring down at you condescendingly.


If only you had a way to gauge how horrible you feel right now and relate it to others!  People of Earth, allow me to give that pathetic fucking existence that you like to call a 'life' some real meaning for once.  Introducing: The Vince Vaughn Scale!  A five-level scale of increasing intensity that will gauge exactly how fucked up your day will be, according to how fucked up you managed to get the night before.  Allow the Patron Saint of Hangovers--the Marlon Brando of actors himself--Mr. Vince Vaughn to demonstrate how a MAN spends his day of recovery.


LEVEL 1 -- The Gentleman

The Night:  After a good, long day at work/school and maxing out higher than ever at the gym, you thought  it would be a end to a productive day if you and the boys hit the bar for some brews.  Hell, that girl you just met even came out last minute and agreed to go on a date this Friday!  All and all, it was a light night, and you were in early enough to get in a few chapters of that book your sister gave you for Christmas.  High five!


The Hangover:  For some reason, your head is annoying the hell out of you once you get up, even though you only had two beers.  You're not noticeably hung over, but you do take a couple tylenol and skip breakfast.  You'll have no trouble powering through it.  You're the fucking man.


LEVEL 2 -- The College Morning

The Night:  The game's on at the bar tonight.  Everyone's going for cheap wings, pizza, and beers.  You're in a good mood--it's a big game--so you show up ready to party wearing your throwback jersey and a handful of new jokes to break out at halftime.  The Giants/Yankees/Knicks/Devils/Liberty win!  In celebration, you buy a round of shots for the people you're talking with.  You're buzzed but get home no problem.

The Hangover:  The alarm goes off...SNOOZE!...The alarm goes off again...SNOOZE!...The alarm goes off again...just let it go.  Ugh, let's get started.  You let out a burp that your paternal line going back four generations would be proud of and hit the toilet.  Poop is made of lava!  Damn wings...at least that's over with.  You gag a little brushing your teeth and decide to skip shaving because the stubble looks damn good today.

LEVEL 3 -- The Gold Standard

The Night:  Friday night, go get plastered!  You earned it!  You throw on some sharp clothes, down a Four Loko, and hit up that hip new place in Hoboken with the overpriced drinks and stuck up rich girls (you know, that one).  Jack and cokes until you realize you're running low--fuck it, shots!  Here's my card, hand me a Corona every 15 minutes, wench!  I'm gettin' sauced tonight!  You dance like an idiot but wind up hooking up anyway because you're an investment banker at the firm where she's a secretary...at least that what she thinks.


The Hangover:  Level 3 is the gold standard for hangovers.  You pull yourself out of bed at 1 PM and down a gallon of water with a tylenol, followed by tons of coffee.  You start pulling retarded hangover remedies out of your ass--like sucking on lemon slices sprinkled with salt--and even drink a beer because you think it'll help you come down easier (I swear it works).  Every time you fart, your sinuses clear out.  At least you haven't puked--BLEEECH...nevermind.  Ahh, that's better.


LEVEL 4 -- The Ninja

The Night:  "I AM GOD.  Where are we?  Car bombs!  Jameson shots!"  There was no reason for that asshole bartender to throw your crew out, you were just going behind the bar to help out!  You're a fucking mess but the ridiculousness of your conversations keep people wanting to hang around you, especially that hambeast you're finger-banging on the "dance floor" (a.k.a. the empty area near the bathroom).  You hit the diner for some disco fries with American cheese because "THIS IS AMERICA, NOT MOZZARELLIA!" and order some bacon for the table because you are just THAT. FUCKING. AWESOME! [BLACK OUT]

The Hangover:  You feel...great.  No headache, you're stomach's fine, and all your motor skills are working.  Hell, you feel more than good and might even go for a run!  Still, something seems a little off.  With your friends from last night, you go back to the diner.  The waitresses don't say anything...but they remember you from four hours ago.  Two eggs over-easy with bacon, rye toast.  Yum!  Suddenly, everything in the room loses its color.  You know you're friends are speaking English, but you can't understand a word they're saying to you.  You have reached Level 4.  You rush home an sit on the toilet for an hour, everything must go!  With no time to think, you have to throw up...right on your dick.  You take the first legitimate bath since childhood and go back to sleep.

LEVEL 5 -- The Endboss

The Night:  The night started out great!  You were on your A game: handsome, charming, and just fun to be around.  Just sometime during the night, someone must have flipped a "crazy switch" on you.  Not only were you the anti-poon, but you somehow managed to cock-block anyone within a 10-yard radius of you.  You start a fight with a guy, not because he's hitting on your girl but because he's hitting on a girl you're not even attracted to.  [SCENE MISSING] To top it all off, you pull the fire alarm.  Congratualtions, asshole, I hope you're proud of yourself!

The Hangover:  You wake up...in Belgium.  You have pioneered a new kind of hangover.  While you can't recall any of this, there seems to be a general consensus among your friends about your level of creepiness.  If you have made it to Level 5, please let us know, the Vince Vaughn Institute for Hangover Research will name it in your honor.  Remember, winding up in the hospital doesn't count, and please, drink responsibly.

-Teddy Broosevelt