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As my friends make their way past the bouncer and into the bar, I open my wallet and slide out my ID. No fumbling. Only a handful of drinks deep, my motions are sure-handed. I give my real, 22-year-old driver’s license to the burly man at the door. He looks at the ID, then down at me, then back at the ID. He holds up the card and tilts it, observing how the street lights hit the holograms.
“Sorry, kid. We’re at capacity,” he says.
No worries. This has happened many times before. I simply have to explain my condition.
“I know what this is,” I tell him. “You think I’m hammered. But that’s just the way my face looks.”
I bust out a straight-line walk. One foot in front of the other. Perfect form. I touch my fingers to my nose. Say (most of) the alphabet backwards. All that jazz.
The bouncer ignores me and calls the next person in line forward.
At this point, Jared has come to my assistance, attempting to reason with the doorman.
“That’s just Boosh,” he explains. “He always looks fucked up. Even when he’s sober.”
No dice. But I refuse to go down like this.
I notice that the bouncer, despite his blatant caucasian ethnicity, appears to be a member of some sort of ancient Hawaiian tribe (I can tell by his dope sleeve tats). Perhaps if I can relate to him, he’ll give me a pass. I find a pen buried in my pocket, roll up my sleeves, and scribble some waves and tiki torches and shit on my forearm. I walk back up to the bouncer, assume a squatting position, and begin slapping my knees and chest.
“HEY OH WAY OH HEY OH WAY OH HEY OH WAY OH!”
But I only seem to offend him more, as he calls over two fellow bouncers and motion for them to kick me to the curb.
Defeated, I hit up a nearby taco stand, call an Uber, go home, and jerk off.
I write this not as a means of fishing for pity. Rather, I hope to shed light on a condition affecting approximately 1 in 40 adult humans.
Chronic Drunk Face.
My fraternity brothers playfully referred to my illness as “The Boosh Eye” or “The Eye of the Boosh,” as my right eye becomes all but welded shut after merely a drop of alcohol. Little did they know how serious my condition truly was, or how detrimental it would be to my (night) life.
While scientists are still baffled as to what causes CDF, most speculate that it is hereditary. Makes sense. I share a last name with famous character actor Steve Buscemi (Boardwalk Empire, Crazy Eyes in Mr. Deeds, fed to the wood chipper in Fargo), who is notorious for his crazy, drunken, buggy eyeballs. While I’m not directly related to him, many Sicilians are named after the town they come from. This means that if you go back far enough, our families were one in the same, making wine in the cellar and shooting out people’s kneecaps. The CDF gene was undoubtedly passed to our current generation. Notice the similarities in the eyes.
The disease occurs when the synapses in the brain are unable to tell the muscles in the face that the person is no longer intoxicated. Because of this disconnect, the person’s eyelids droop, their jaw slacks, and their demeanor becomes aloof and uncoordinated.
Aside from taping the eyelids open, there is no known cure for CDF.
While a legitimate medical correction to the disease may be years upon years away, there is something we can all do now: raise awareness. Thanks to recent widespread campaigns led by medical public relations officials, the world over has become familiar with the close cousins of CDF.
Chronic Bitch Face (CBF):
And Chronic Retard Face (CRF):
But without proper representation, people with Chronic Drunk Face have been forced to suffer in silence, watching their friends walk into bars without them. Until today.
I beseech all of you to observe your friends closely for signs of CDF. Notice how they look sober, then notice how they look after they’ve had a few. Then notice how they look after they’ve had several. No change in facial expression? They’ve got the sickness. Be sure to help them navigate the cold, non-CDF-friendly world by alerting waiters, bartenders, and bouncers alike that your buddy is not drunk, but merely suffers from a terrible affliction of the face.
Share this post with everyone you know. Get the word out (especially to bar and restaurant workers in the greater Austin area). I’m currently working on developing ribbon bumper stickers people can slap on their cars. It’ll have a bunch of half-opened eyeballs all over it. In the meantime, donate to the cause by sending a small $10 donation to @Alex-Buscemi via Venmo. Every bit helps.
We will get through this, fellow Chronic Drunk Facers. Change is a-comin’. Hold your chins — and your eyelids — as high as you can..