99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer. Take one down. Pass it to Superman. 98 bottles of beer on the wall.

Since Superman is my childhood hero, I fully believe he could complete a centurion (100 shots of beer in 100 minutes) no problem. He could shotgun a can of beer for each drink and still fly back to the fortress of solitude in a straight line. I’m guessing beer is Superman’s drink of choice. There's nothing better than a nice cold, frosty mug of ale, not lager, on a nice, hot sunny day in the city of Metropolis. I’m guessing Jerry Siegel would have him drinking a Budweiser, but Joe Shuster would put a case of Canadian beer in the superhero’s fridge.Yeah Canada. In a bar, Superman would be the guy playing golden tee, pool or darts. He is very competitive and needs to be the best at everything.

Batman could also pound back quite a few. He has mental problems and needs something to suppress the death of his parents, Robin 1 and 2 and all the people he couldn’t save. Hell, I’m surprised he’s not throwing up all over the batcave and wrapping the batmobile around lampposts throughout Gothem. I know I would. Batman seems like a rye guy. A glass of JD on the rocks. He likes the way Jack burns his throat on the way down. Batman would sit in his chair and drink. He’d think about all the ways to kick the shit out of the others sitting near him.

The Flash would always be the first one drunk. The drinks would warm his belly at a speed only matched by Superman. Flash does have a super metabolism which could hinder his attempts to get drunk, so I’m guessing he’d be a shot guy. One after the other, until they started to take effect. He’s a sissy so I’m guessing he’d order fuzzy navels and electric popsicles. Once drunk Flash wouldn’t shutup. He’d keep jibbering and jabbering until Batman knocked him out.

Why am I spouting off about the drinking habits of the greatest men on the planet? Well, this past weekend, I happened to witness one drunk superhero. He let his secret identity slip out for the world to see. After enough rye and beer to sufficiently buzz the average man, Joel became Disorientatedman. He can stumble to the ground quicker than the common drunk and has a hard time taking a piss at a urinal. Underneath his shirt, he has a wobbly DoM etched on his chest with black marker. He’s better known as the DoM to the regulars of the drunk tank.

I’ve heard the legend of a guy wandering around the streets of Rocky Mountain House in a disorganized fashion, but I didn’t believe them. Now, I know better. I never had the chance to see the famous acronym, but I saw the well-known stagger, the slurring and the reckless spending. I happened to see the DoM’s finishing move: the pass out. His eyes roll deep into the back of his skull, he emits a heavy laboured snoring noise to repel off intruders and he didn’t even use blankets. Blankets slow down his reaction time. What if someone needs a disorientating right away? I had suspicions that Joel was the DoM ever since my 18th birthday party; now I know for sure. I’m spreading his secret identity to everyone who reads this blog. Beware of the DoM. He’ll make you feel uninebriated and capable of driving. He’s so disorientated that you feel fine.

Where ever the DoM can be found, the Ball of Fury isn’t far away. He’s a 5 foot five inch being of pure blubber mixed in with a dash of rage. Mike Spoor is the man behind the anger. He’s fiercer than a snapping turtle and has the ferocious beak to match. He likes to yell and scream and isn’t afraid of crying. I’d like to give you a warning, but he’s hard to describe. He’s either Spanish, Mexican, Canadian or American. He has that lovable, kill-dem-all American attitude. The only person who can put a lid on the Ball of Fury’s incredible can of whupass is Hoser. They have a strange relationship. It could be a gay love affair or just two drinking buddies who never get out of the I love you stage.

After all the superhero sightings over the past weekend. I can’t wait to party like it’s June 12, 2004 again. With the help of my spindly little arms, I’m going to raise the roof. Whoop, Whoop.