The cold, unforgiving light streams in. That fucking light. It burns your face and sears your eyes. No one ever said it would be easy, but why—why is this a thing?
Hangovers aren’t fun. Especially after they turn that corner in your mid-20’s, morphing from a mild headache-infused inconvenience to a nightmarish vice grip of pain engulfing your entire being.
And, sooner or later, everyone develops a ‘cure’ for their hangovers. Maybe it’s a hearty breakfast. Maybe it’s an ice-cold shower. Maybe a good, swift bike ride.
Those are all wrong. At least compared to the One Correct Way:
Specifically, if you can, David Attenborough nature documentaries.
There’s something about David motherfuckin’ Attenborough talking about a snooty-looking komodo dragon just chilling on an idyllic beach in his half-whispered, awed tone that makes the headache seem manageable.
There’s something about those superhuman BBC camera crews, somehow being at the right nexus of space and time to capture a lioness—a completely balls-out insane lioness leaping up and out in front of a charging giraffe like a goddamn lunatic, claws out and fangs bared, ready to take down an anaconda-necked tank—that makes the creeping dread seem like a transient flippancy.
There’s something about—JESUS FUCKING CHRIST CAN ENOUGH EVER BE SAID ABOUT THAT DAMNED ZOMBIE SNAKES PARKOUR LIZARD SCENE?!
What hope does that liquid-boned pansy of a hangover stand against this little guy—
—just munching on some sweet-ass nuts while you lounge on your couch thinking, ‘Something’s gonna go wrong for this little guy munching on those sweet-ass nuts…’
When, sure enough, he’s all like, ‘Uh-oh. Holy shit, I sense a disturbance in the Force. Did you guys sense a disturbance in the For-…’
YES, YOU LITTLE HAIRY FUCKER, THE WINGS OF THE ARCHANGEL OF DEATH REND THE VERY AIR ABOVE YOU, FLEE NOW WHILE YOU STILL CAN!
And he fucking drops the nuts and he fucking legs it across the scorching desert towards some cover, hoping to find safety in the shadow of needles and rock.
And you better believe that bird swoops down and follows him and it stalks him like it’s the motherfucking Xenomorph.
Who’s got the time to be bloody hungover when you’re watching a real life Alien unfold in front of you?
In the desert, no-one can you hear you drop your nuts.
It’s good to remember of course that the chief weapon in the war against a hangover is water.
Of which there is like none in the vertiginous Andes.
‘Jesus Christ,’ your poor hungover brain cries in empathy. ‘Surely no animal can be hanging around up there?!’
And you’d be mostly right.
APART FROM THIS LONE FLAMINGO POSER WHO JUST DOES NOT GIVE A SHIT.
Look at that fucker. The very air around him boils with volcanic heat and he has the temerity to look bored. Unimpressed. ‘It’s alright. I mean I’ve lived through worse lifeless hellscapes though.’
Aye but fair enough. That’s probably just like an aberrant, existentially challenged Herzogian flamingo. It most likely went mad and decamped to the forsaken Andes to get away from all his flamingo frien-…
OH WHAT KIND OF CARTOON SHITFUCKERY IS THIS?! Even Attenborough knows this is pure tomfoolery! Hans Zimmer knows too! That narration is cheeky and that music is jaunty! How the hell are you meant to stay hungover when real life is making Disney look gritty and somber?
Check it out:
A snow leopard is one of the most elusive creatures in the animal kingdom.
You could camp out, perfectly camouflaged in the Himalayas with a telephoto lens for a month and count yourself lucky if you got a single solitary glimpse of a snow leopard, its very nature a metaphor for our place on a tiny speck in the infinite, cold, unfeeling universe.
SO DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, HERE, HAVE A CAMERA SHOVED RIGHT UP IN THIS INVISIBLE GHOST’S GRILL:
Or, shit, okay, let’s bring it down a bit, look: some capybaras — the chillest of all chill animals — just chilling:
How can you be hungover while being presented with a vision of such verdant bliss?
Oh, dammit, nearby? A stealthy dinosaur:
And an even stealthier jaguar:
Shit, you better leave those capybaras out of this you lot!
But it looks like they’re safe, because—
Ho-lee shit, is that murderkitty doing what I think it’s doing?
Is it stalking the river dinosaur?
You bet. The mad spotty twat is wading in and stalking the reptilian death submarine.
And before you know it:
Yup. There’s blood in the water cos that murderkitty has just bagged itself a scaly treat.
And then it drags it up a fucking slope!
We are all this capybara seeing this happen and thinking, ‘Dude, I gotta stop smoking that shit Derek gives me.’
Your hangover? It’s a seal, and nature documentaries are a Great White shark.
If the hangover you got can’t be cured by David Attenborough waxing poetic over an industrious little ant nibbling the fuck out of some grass—
—then I’ve got bad news for you: You’re not hungover.
You’re already dead.