E has this friend, Johnnie. He invites him to a lot of our parties. But every time Johnny shows up, there’s trouble. He makes E act silly, or makes E say silly things, or make E go to sleep and say nothing at all.

Johnnie, as in Johnnie Walker Black. E’s favorite booze. That Johnny is a real troublemaker.

After meeting Johnnie (in the form of Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks), and inviting his other troublemaker friend Don Julio (in the form of a few jalapeño margaritas and some tequila shots at the end of E’s birthday dinner at Gran Electrica), E took to the couch most of the day Sunday. He curled up with his iPad and fought to keep his eyes open. “I shouldn’t have had that last tequila shot,” he mumbled. Famous last words.

He needed something hearty and meaty and greasy to soak up all of that alcohol. I bought biscuits and sausage at Fairway, planning a homegrown version of the hangover breakfast sandwich. A good one can be bought at your local deli or bodega (or if you’re on the interstate, McDonald’s), with extra cheese, a sausage patty the size of a hockey puck, and eggs scrambled up, sometimes in the sausage grease, all on a buttery biscuit. There was nothing healthy about my version, except that my sausage patty was slightly smaller.

I presented E with the greasy sandwich around 2PM—really not breakfast time anymore, but still necessary to ward off E’s lingering Johnnie Walker Black headache. Damn you, Johnnie. “Why do you keep inviting him back?” I asked E.

“Johnnie means well, honey. He’s not a bad guy.”

I think his head would disagree.

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