Mosquitoes catch a buzz after attacking you.

You fall off the floor.

You lose arguments with inanimate objects.

You have to hold on to the lawn to keep from falling off the earth.

Job interfering with your drinking.

Your doctor finds traces of blood in your alcohol stream.

The back of your head keeps getting hit by the toilet seat.

Sincerely believe alcohol to be the elusive 5th food group.

24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case-coincidence?? You think not!

You can focus better with one eye closed.

The parking lot seems to have moved while you were in the bar.

Your twin sons are named Barley and Hops.

Hey, 5 beers has just as many calories as a burger, screw dinner!

Your idea of cutting back is less salt.

You wake up in the bedroom, your underwear is in the bathroom, you fell asleep clothed … hmmm?

Roseanne looks good.

That damned pink elephant followed you home again.

Every night you’re beginning to find your roommate’s cat more and more attractive.

You think the four basic food groups are Caffeine, Nicotine, Alcohol, and the opposite sex.

Don’t recognize your wife unless seen through the bottom of a glass.

The shrubbery’s drunk from too frequent watering.

You wake up screaming, “TORO TORO TORO!”, in the middle of the night.

Two hands and just one mouth…now THAT’S a drinking problem!

You spent Sunday night in jail for cow-tipping – with your Oldsmobile.

Friends armed with fire extinguishers stood at a safe distance as you
blew out your birthday candles.

Thanks to you, Jack Daniel’s stock is up 15 1/4 since Friday.

Boris Yeltsin called personally to ask you to slow down on the Vodka.

For some reason, there’s salt on the rim of you basketball goal.

Your name is Otis and Sheriff Andy has brought you some of Aunt Bea’s
pancakes.

For the money you spent on Thunderbird, you could’ve bought the car.

You’re now the proud inventor of the “Slim Jim”: Ultra Slim-Fast shakes made with Jim Beam.

Absolute wants to run an add featuring a picture of your liver in the shape of a bottle.

Yet again, dry cleaner employees greet you with, “Hey, it’s Vomit Man!”

The doorman asks for you I.D. just to see how long it’ll take you to find your pants.

Your liver, in a fit of pique, leaps out of your abdominal cavity into a pan of frying onions.

Worried friends call Monday morning to make sure you returned the goat.

You’re now sober enough to realize “Drink Canada Dry” is a slogan and not a personal challenge.

You are lying in bed and it feels like you’re on a merry-go-round.

You sound like you’re speaking a different language and get irritated when others don’t understand you.

You walk up to a real big dude and ask, “Is it true big guys have real small peckers?”

You fart and then feel a lump in your back pocket.