Ah! Sorry, I misunderstood the original question. Nope, two pints wouldn't warrant a transfusion, but if the victim does get to the hospital less two pints and still stone drunk, they'll definitely be given a liter of regular old normal saline IV; drinking dehydrates a person, and losing blood on top of that will make the person feel like reheated ass. They'll definitely be woozy and tired the next day.

Perfection. Thank you so much!

I want to go home and write! Or stay here at work and write, because the workplace makes my mind more focused on, well, working. My muse has set up a projector in my head and the next scenes are playing on the backs of my eyeballs. I keep getting distracted by character voices pitching witty dialogue at each other. But I need to work--and work with more focus than I currently am.

Dehydrated and drunk is no way to go through life, FlounderXander.

I wonder what it says about me that I bookmarked Jen's post just in case I should ever need that information.

It means your tagline is apt!

(For posterity, the tagline is "refreshingly morbid.")

Hee!

I wonder what it says about me that I bookmarked Jen's post just in case I should ever need that information.

You mean there are people who didn't?

You mean there are people who didn't?

Oh, duh, I knew there was something I forgot to do.

To all the purple prosers out there: some people get paid for it.

LONDON (Reuters) - American author and journalist Tom Wolfe won one of the world's most dreaded literary accolades on Monday -- the British prize for bad sex in fiction.

The prize is awarded each year "to draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel."

Wolfe won it for a couple of purple passages from his latest novel "I am Charlotte Simmons," a tale of campus life at an exclusive U.S. university.

"Slither slither slither slither went the tongue," one of his winning sentences begins.

"But the hand that was what she tried to concentrate on, the hand, since it has the entire terrain of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns -- oh God, it was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest -- no, the hand was cupping her entire right -- Now!"

Judges described Wolfe's prose as "ghastly and boring."

The former Washington Post correspondent, whose debut novel "Bonfire of the Vanities" was a defining text of the 1980s, fought off stiff competition from 10 other authors including South African Andre Brink, whose novel "Before I Forget" contains the following description of a woman's vulva:

"(It was) like a large exotic mushroom in the fork of a tree, a little pleasure dome if ever I've seen one, where Alph the sacred river ran down to a tideless sea. No, not tideless. Her tides were convulsive, an ebb and flow that could take you very far, far back, before hurling you out, wildly and triumphantly, on a ribbed and windswept beach without end."

Another writer who only narrowly escaped the prize was Britain's Nadeem Aslam for his novel "Maps for Lost Lovers" a tale of life in a Muslim community in an English town.

"His mouth looked for the oiled berry," one of his raunchiest passages starts.

"The smell of his armpits was on her shoulders -- a flower depositing pollen on a hummingbird's forehead," another reads.

The winner of the award, organized by the London-based Literary Review, is given an Oscar-style statuette and a bottle of champagne -- but only if he or she comes to the awards ceremony in person.

Organizers said Wolfe, who is based in New York, was the first writer in the 12-year history of the competition to decline his invitation.

Shit. That little punk.The white suit doesn't make you Mark Twain, dude.