Ham on Wry

HANGOVER HEAVEN (from the San Diego Union, via Connie M., Encinitas, California): "When you do not simply awaken, but fight to get up from the bottomless black depths, and your eyelids have turned to stone and someone has driven red-hot railroad spikes into your skull, and the flesh on your face reacts slowly to your touch as though you were feeling it from a great distance, with a stick, and your tongue has turned into a furry hole, and your throat has been seared with a blowtorch then covered with sand, and your stomach is a leaden vessel brimming with sulphuric acid, and the surface on which you lie suddenly has been fitted with slow-but-steadily-turning helicopter rotor blades, and your breathing sounds like the roar of a tornado, and you dare not face a recollection of the night before, and you gradually grow absolutely certain that you will never get out of bed (or off the chair or up from the floor) because your mind can no longer command your limbs to move, and they would not have the strength to obey anyhow."