You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery

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9780142181676: You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery

A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER · "Hart is a pull-no-punches comedian with a talent for self-deprecation in the guise of self-aggrandizement, a winning formula." –The New York Times
 
Mamrie Hart is a drinking star with a Youtube problem. With over a million subscribers to her cult-hit video series “You Deserve a Drink,” Hart has been entertaining viewers with a combination of tasty libations and raunchy puns since 2011. Hart also co-wrote/co-starred in Dirty Thirty and Camp Takota with Grace Helbig and Hannah Hart.

Finally, Hart has compiled her best drinking stories—and worst hangovers—into one hilarious volume. From the spring break where she and her girlfriends avoided tan lines by staying at an all-male gay nudist resort, to the bachelorette party where she accidentally hired a sixty-year-old meth head to teach the group pole dancing (not to mention the time she lit herself on fire during a Flaming Lips concert), Hart accompanies each story with an original cocktail recipe, ensuring that You Deserve a Drink is as educational as it is entertaining.
 
With cameos from familiar friends from the YouTube scene and a foreword by Grace Helbig, this glimpse into Hart’s life brings warmth and humor to the woman fans know and love. And for readers who haven’t met Mamrie yet—take a warm-up shot and break out the cocktail shaker: you’re going to need a drink.

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About the Author:

Mamrie Hart is from middle-of-nowhere North Carolina. She now lives in Los Angeles with her tiny hairless dog, Beanz.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Eric Michael Pearson

Modeling is tough.
To get ready for this shoot,
I didn’t eat for, like, two and
a half
hours.

FOREWORD

One humid summer night in Austin, Texas, Mamrie Hart and I spent an hour drunkenly arguing and openly crying on the street while wearing David Bowie– and Tina Turner–inspired wigs, butterfly eyelashes, and KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD tie-dyed T-shirts. Yes, we had been out at a bar dressed like that. Yes, the bartender bought us two-too-many shots. Yes, the jury’s still out on whether that bartender thought we were reject prostitutes having an existential crisis. And yes, what we were actually arguing about was complete nonsense. But man did those giant orange butterfly wings superglued to Mamrie’s eyelids hold up. The next morning we dragged our haggard bodies into our production van (we had been in the middle of filming a travel web series). When the crew left to get some coffee, we finally looked at each other and had this conversation:

“We cool?”

“Yeah, we’re just idiots.”

“Bloody Mary?”

“Dear God, yes.”

And that was that. We were back.

That day it really hit me: A friendship with Mamrie Hart is a truly special thing. It’s a friendship that, even in the seemingly difficult times, is abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous, in the best way possible. And that, plain and simple, is Mamrie’s life.

We’ve been friends since 2007, where we met on our first sketch comedy team, Finger (pronounced Fing-uh, because we were clearly hilarious). One of the first sketches we performed was called “Party Starters,” about two girls who start parties everywhere they go, even in inappropriate places (again, hilarious). But the core of that sketch has carried through to our friendship. Together we’ve been globe-trotters, meeting Mexican and American wrestlers, professional bull riders, spiritual healers, one-eyed mini ponies, a woman watching a Britney Spears concert through opera glasses . . . the list goes on. She’s pushed a person out of a cab, screaming, “That’s Brooklyn, bitch,” at the end of a drunken night. She’s shown me her blackjack skills while wearing a Snoop Dogg sweatshirt, sloshing a Lemon Drop martini, and flirting with a man to get a free electronic cigarette. She’s made me a bra with removable airplane bottles. She’s gotten me a green screen as a birthday present and wrapped it with DENTAL DAM written in huge letters across the outside. She’s crashed on my couch and farted herself awake in the middle of the night. She’s given me a handmade trophy to commemorate my excellent repression skills. She’s voluntarily bought swamp suits, a blow-up doll, karate gis, pizza costumes, and an electronic inflatable penis costume for other live shows we’ve done. She’s a special breed.

Needless to say I couldn’t be more thankful to have this absurdly sweet, reincarnated-vaudevillian-entertainer-meets-DIY-driven-hillbilly-sass-factory in my life. And now she’s created a book that lets you into hers. THANK GOD. Take it from someone who has watched her scoop room service lasagna off a carpeted hotel-room floor and eat it: None of what you’re about to read is exaggerated, fabricated, or G-rated. But it is, like her, special.

—Grace Helbig, #1 New York Times

bestselling author of Grace’s Guide

INTRODUCTION

I wrote a book, you guys. This is big. Anyone who knows me at all (and you certainly will by the end of this thing) knows that I don’t even read books, let alone write them. Sure, I’ll occasionally find myself perusing Us Weekly, or a lengthy takeout menu, or an ex-boyfriend’s Facebook post about his new perfect family, but that’s about it.

For those of you who randomly picked this up at Barnes & Noble,* allow me to tell you a little bit about myself. My name is Mamrie Hart and I wanted to write this paperweight to combine my two favorite things: delicious cocktails and embarrassing myself. ’Cause nothing goes together better than dirty martinis and queef stories. A duo for the ages.

In 2011, I created a show called You Deserve a Drink, which lives on the Internet.* Every week I make a custom cocktail in honor of whoever in pop culture I think needs one the most. After sitting down and putting these stories on paper, I realized the person who most deserves a drink in this book is you, the reader! It’s gonna be a doozy, dudes. Why, you ask? Because . . . drumroll, please . . .

This book has a built-in drinking game!

Drinking games are a great way to rationalize excessive drinking, plus I selfishly want everyone to have a buzz so they think I’m a better writer than I actually am. The rules on my show are simple—drink every time I make a terrible pun—but that won’t work here. I can’t be responsible for alcohol poisoning of the literally dozens of people who will read this book. Instead, I came up with these rules.

Drink every time I . . .

1. reference an old television show;

2. talk about a food product that could be purchased at 7-Eleven;

3. use a slang term for a reproductive organ.

Turns out, you learn a lot about yourself when you write a book; and turns out, I talk about these three things incessantly. I don’t think there’s been a day in my adult life when I haven’t discussed Boy Meets World (why did they make Eric so dumb in the last few seasons?) or at least mentioned nachos.

Another detail you will see scattered among these pages is the word rutabaga. No, you are not about to embark on a bio bender about root vegetables. Rutabaga is my safe word. Normally safe words are codes used during BDSM (hard-core sex stuff) that the submissive person can use when he/she isn’t comfortable. Well, my safe word will be written every time I want my parents to stop reading that chapter. Part of me wishes I had said it before even writing the definition of safe word. I know my parents and other family members are going to read this book. It’s inevitable. And they will be super proud. I’ll be the goddamn Lady Gaga of this year’s Thanksgiving!

Sorry, Aunt Debbie, I cannot take the stuffing out of the oven. I can’t risk a thumb burn when I have to autograph books next month.

But there are a few tales that my relatives might not want burned into their brains. I figured a safe word would be a good way to prevent future therapy costs, and so they don’t “turnip” their noses at me come Turkey Day . . . ’cause rutabagas are turnips (more highbrow classic jokes like that in the pages ahead).

Now that all the rules are in play, let’s do this thing. Let’s read a fucking book, you guys! You could be reading this on the beach and quietly wondering how, exactly, to get that sand out of there, or be by yourself at a bar while you wait for a blind date and want to avoid having conversation with the people around you.* Whatever the circumstances, I hope you have a good time reading it. I had a great time writing it. And with that . . .

Full House, Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and Chubby Cubbies. Drink, mothafuckas!

Bad Apple

1½ oz Calvados or other apple brandy

1½ oz vodka

2 oz fresh apple cider

½ oz ginger liqueur

Put everything in a shaker of ice and go to town. Strain into a martini glass. Garnish with a slice of apple, or if you want to be really bad, dip the rim in that delicious caramel dip they stock in the produce department.

I need everyone to sit down right now, because what I am about to say might shock you to the core. Although I am one of the most elegant, refined women you will ever have the pleasure of meeting, truth be told, I have had some pretty ridiculous hangovers in my day. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve had a hangover, I would’ve already paid a group of top scientists to find a cure.

The worst hangover I’ve ever experienced came the morning after my first night living in New York City. The year was 2005. By some grace of God, I had actually graduated from college, and rather than use my diploma for rolling papers (which I’d threatened to do on many occasions), I was going to use that theater degree for good. I was going to be a serious actress.

I won’t lie to you. I was nervous. But to have a career in acting, it would have to be either L.A. or NYC. Moving to L.A. would’ve been easier for me because I had the built-in safety net of my dad and stepmom living there. In L.A., the crime was lower and the tits temps were higher. But if I was going to be the next Meryl Streep, I needed to toughen up. I needed to dig deep and experience struggle. The most I struggled in college was when the Papa John’s delivery guy would forget the garlic sauce.

Yes, this girl right here was going to be serious. Mind you, this is my official graduation photo. Everyone else looks poised and ready to take on adulthood. (I, on the other hand, had slept thirty minutes and had cran-grape and vodka in my purse.)

I got off my flight from North Carolina, full of hope and a twelve-dollar bag of Chex Mix.* I was ready to take the city by storm, and also mace anyone who came near me. This was 2005, people. Sure, it wasn’t 1980s “let’s all pretend there isn’t a corpse in our subway car” Brooklyn, but it also wasn’t the Brooklyn that shows like Girls have depicted. Nowadays if you live in Brooklyn, your biggest danger is a rent hike when a specialty pickle shop opens next door.

I came prepared to take down anyone who walked too close behind me. I didn’t care if you were benignly looking at my purse because you noticed the tag read CUCCI instead of GUCCI; I’d already have one hand on my mace, the other hand on my scarf to choke you out if I needed to. And I wasn’t just prepared for an attack on the streets. I was always conjuring up new scenarios to protect myself in my apartment too. Every night before tucking myself into sleepy time, I would make a game plan in case someone broke in. Bubble Wrap right inside the door will sound like gunshots when they step on it! My landlord probably wouldn’t be stoked if I spread tar all over my stairs, but maybe I could get away with wads of gum. I was apparently banking on these intruders being the “Wet Bandits” from Home Alone.

Luckily, I didn’t have to face the Big Bad Apple by myself. I was moving into an apartment with my friend Kat, whom I had been a camp counselor with a year before. I knew from our summer together that if Kat was one thing, it was fun! No chance of a boring roommate there. But to be honest, I was a little anxious about the whole living-with-each-other scenario. Being roommates with someone in a new city is a lot different from being pals in the carefree world of swimming and s’mores. We had hung out on days off, getting ridiculously drunk together and acting like fools, but this was the real world. Was Kat going to stop being polite and start getting real?

Truth be told, the only time we’d ever gotten together during the off-season, she ended up wrecking my car. But she paid for it without question! And, sure, there was talk that she didn’t actually leave camp of her own accord but was fired for bringing weed on a campout. But I had no confirmation if that rumor was true-mor, and surely someone wouldn’t be that stupid! So I suppressed my nerves and told myself that my new roommate situation was going to be ideal.

I got off the subway at Prospect Avenue in Brooklyn, fully expecting the streets to be covered in chalk outlines and to see rats building nests out of used syringes. Turns out, my street looked like an establishing shot from The Cosby Show. The streets had rows and rows of brownstones with big stoops and flower boxes under windows. The only chalk on the sidewalks was for hopscotch. And if there were rats, they were probably the cute puppet ones from The Muppet Show. I loosened my grip on my mace as Kat ran up to me, waving.

“Welcome to New York!” she said, wrapping me in a big hug and helping me with my duffel bag. Kat was classically beautiful. She had jet-black hair and fair skin, very 1940s glamour. She was twenty-seven to my twenty-two and she wore a leather jacket, so I inevitably felt like a fetus with eyeliner in comparison.

“Kat! Thank God! I was so worried, but this neighborhood is straight out of a magazine! I can’t wait to see our place.”

She breathed in sharply. “So, there’s been a little change of plans.”

Oh Jesus, I thought to myself. We’re going to be homeless. I am going to have to sell my body on the streets, and I’m so out of shape right now that to make any money I’ll have to do a BOGO deal. Or maybe a punch card system . . .

“They have to fix a couple more things in our place, so it won’t be ready for a few days.”

A few days?! I didn’t have any money for a hotel. Kat found a place that was eight hundred dollars each a month, and after the security deposit and insane broker fee, I was moving to New York with three hundred bucks to my name. I imagined myself staying in a shelter, finally breaking out all the knowledge I had held on to from the film Curly Sue. Before I could ask Kat how smooth her sleight of hand was, she eased my worries.

“I already told my friend Maegan that you were coming. I’ve been staying with her the past month. It’s right up this block.” I followed Kat, a little nervous about invading a complete stranger’s place.

“Relax, we’ve been best friends since we were five. She’s totally cool with you crashing in the living room with me,” Kat said, trying to reassure me. Sure, I thought to myself. Having someone you’ve known since kindergarten stay with you is one thing, but some rando with her cherry-print duffel bag and three-days-without-a-shower greasy head is another.

“Honey, we’re home!” Kat called as we walked up the stairs. Maegan appeared at the front door wearing a 1982 Van Halen Hide Your Sheep Tour T-shirt and cutoff jean shorts, and she had on the exact knee-high gladiator sandals that I had been coveting all summer but had worried would make my calves look like a tray of yeast rolls at Golden Corral. She had wild, curly red hair that stuck out everywhere, kind of like Dana at the end of Ghostbusters, when you can’t tell if she’s about to fuck Bill Murray or wear him as a skin suit. Simply put, Maegan’s look was on point.

“It’s so nice to meet you! Welcome!” she said as she ushered us into her apartment. It was decked out in the raddest vintage shit I’d ever seen. There was a light-up sign that read DISCO hanging above her bed, and the headboard was made out of a refurbished dashboard, complete with an 8-track player. Maegan grabbed me a Corona while Kat was fixing herself a tequila and orange juice.

“Starting early on the tequila, I see,” Maegan called to Kat in the kitchen, then turned to me. “I have that shirt!”

I looked down at my 1983 Kenny Rogers Jovan Musk Tour tee. While I was in shock from the coincidence, she kept going like she had just pointed out a mass-produced t...

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Book Description Softcover. Book Condition: New. The riotously funny debut from the drinking star with a YouTube problemSince launching her YouTube channel "You Deserve a Drink" in 2011, comedian Mamrie Hart has built an intensely devoted following of more than half a million viewers. Like her bawdy and bacchanalian show, Hartís eponymous debut pays tribute to her boozy misadventures with an original cocktail recipe accompanying each hilarious tale. From the "Leaves of Three Martini," commemorating the hookup to whom she accidentally gave poison ivy, to the "Bizzargarita," in honor of the time she and a friend were approached by two uber-Republican couples who wanted to "swing" while on vacation in Mexico, You Deserve a Drink is as useful as it is entertaining. Bookseller Inventory # 113547775

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