One Happy Hour
Man, how great is happy hour? It really makes those eight other unhappy ones that come before all worth it. Knowing that after a hard day’s work, you can hit up a bar for one glorious hour of one-dollar-off beers and half-price appetizers. It just doesn’t get any better than that.
People are so happy during happy hour. How could they not be? Sure, their job sucks, they don’t think they get paid enough, their boss is a total ass-hole, their bored as shit, they hate their commute, they begrudge getting out of bed every morning, but for the sixty minutes after they punch out, well drinks are only five dollars and domestic drafts only three. Life’s not so bad after all.
Yeah, work sucks. And then you die. We all know that. Everyone’s told us since we were six. But no one told us there’d be happy hour. 3600 seconds of shot and beer combos for seven bucks that make the 40-or-so years of nine-to-five totally worthwhile. What is everyone bitching about?
Did you know that the NTC (National Time Council) just did a study that discovered that according to the biological clocks of human beings, examining their circadian rhythms and brain patterns, 6-7 is the time when the most serotonin is released from the cerebellum? This, in non-sciencical terms, means we actually are the happiest during that hour. The cheap drinks and four dollar mozzarella sticks are just a coincidence.
I can prove it. Have you ever looked around a bar during happy hour? Nothing but smiles. And it’s not just the booze. Look around that same bar at 2 am and you won’t be seeing a picture of utter joy. Girls crying, foreheads on tables, screaming cell-phones. But look around at about 6:30 and you won’t see a frown in the room. Nothing but good-deal laughter and fair-priced chatter. What an hour.
What can possibly match the euphoria of standing at a bar behind those who beat you and got seats after finishing another grinding day of work? Drinking up knowing that now you’ve inched that much closer to those two work-less days at week’s end, that you’ve put one more in the books, that you’ve secured one more chunk of change, and now you’ve got a whole hour of discounted bottles to enjoy. Cheers to that.
Sometimes, I don’t even want to go to happy hour. But then I think about how depressed I’ll be if I don’t. Because, if I don’t cram three price-slashed drinks in me in an hour, how am I going to feel in the morning knowing I missed out on the bargain. Not very happy.
And what a deal. A dollar off draft beer. That’s beer from the keg we’re talking about. For a dollar less than normal. It’s like instead of getting hosed, were getting run through the sprinkler. So much more fun.
Oh, happy hour, you’re always waiting for us right outside our office door. You never go anywhere during the week. Never go away, never take a sick-day, never a leave of absence, never a vacation. Every day, the same as the last, work, lunch, work, then happy hour. Day after day after day after day. Monday through Friday. Week after week, month after month, year after year, then after then, life after life, there’s happy hour. What lucky working stiffs we are.
To be granted an hour of every day to be happy. Thank you America. Happy hour is your grand convention. Only America would have the economical fortitude to designate one reduced-rate hour of every day “happy”, thus making up for the other eight not so content, but infinitely more productive ones.
I think when work stops sucking, and we die, clock out for that final time, we just go to the great happy hour in the sky. Where an open bar-stool is always waiting, buffalo wings are always a quarter, the juke-box is always on and you never have to leave before your songs play, and the beer is always flowing at two dollars a pint. Just remember to tip your angel.
God, I love happy hour. It’s just so damn fun. All the happiness of the masses squeezed in to one room, one hour. The greatest reward for a job well done is a jack and coke less expensive.
Everyone loves happy hour. Friends, neighbors, co-workers, bosses, interns, janitors, execs, cops, robbers, drunks, single girls that want to get bronzed and mounted, married men that want to get buzzed and by, students, teachers, principals, daters, drummers, that guy at the end of the bar with his hood on, winners, losers, therapists, and candle-stick makers. Happy hour is the best.
Plus, you know what the best thing about it is? What just makes happy hour so terrific? What really raises it to the level of greatness? That it gets you good and drunk early enough that you can still get to bed at a reasonable hour so you’ll have no problem waking up tomorrow in time for work again.
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