The Post today runs an excerpt from former scribe Tom Sykes's memoir of drunkenness, What Did I Do Last Night? A Drunkard's Tale. In it, Sykes tells of an incident when he came home, wasted, and couldn't get inside his apartment door. Thinking his wife had locked him out, he kicked the shit out of the door, screaming and pounding to be let in. When there was no answer, Sykes eventually gave up and slept in the hallway. When he woke up, he had three guns in his face and the NYPD screaming at him. Sykes explained that he was locked out, and an officer took his keys and went upstairs:
"You're on the wrong floor," he said. "You live one flight up." I looked at him aghast. Then he pointed at the door I had been kicking the living daylights out of earlier.
"Your neighbors, who live here, called us because they thought someone was trying to kill them. It's lucky you passed out, or you may well not be alive."
With that, he turned and all three cops walked down the stairs. The last one turned, looked at me, and said, "You f—-ing idiot."
That's it? That's not an alcoholic's tale, that's the same story every normal drunk tells. It's called college. So Sykes was on the wrong floor, big deal. At least he got inside the right building! Weak, dude. Talk to us when you come to on Bowery in your boxers and a sombrero, carrying a traffic light.