Charles H. Baker, Jr. on Hangovers
Few diseases in this mortal life are more mournful—especially 1 of those extra-
special horn-rimmed, brass-bound, 3/4-morocco, deckle-edged, ingrowing, full-
bearded specimens which tread your heel after a somewhat extended nervous
session of bouts in bars.
You awake to blazing light like a hot brazen sword at base of skull. Your
scorched blanket-hot eyelids smart like salted live raw beef. In your querulous-
queasy stomach lies a heap of tallow golf balls. Your tongue is a gun-wad of old
burlap batting. Yestereve's mixes have long since quit all benefit and have
departed to greener pastures, leaving a residual aftertaste offering a fine blending
of the overalls in Mrs. Murphy's chowder and a well-aged Norse snow-shoe
moccasin— if there be such a thing...

The Gentleman’s Companion:
Charles H. Baker, Jr.