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The drink-sodden journalist is one of the few stereotypes in life that actually understates the case. Outside of professional hobodom we know of no profession where acute suit-puking alcoholism is so prevalent or mythologized. Or at least that used to be the case: Now that reporters come minted with advanced degrees and expectations of six figure salaries down the road it seems that the elbow-bending hack is in danger of vanishing like classified ads. (When was the last time you heard of Sewell Chan booting in Jenny 8.'s lap?) But we're sure a few die-hards still remain, showing up to work bleary-eyed and reeking of throw up, hands shaking like Michael J. Fox during congressional testimony. We want to identify these throwbacks—and their distinguished predecessors—so as to provide an example to the clean-cut kids of today, too many of whom are emulating busy-pants Chan when they should be following the shitfaced Spencer Morgan model.

So we put it to you: Who are New York's drunkest journalists? Have you ever seen Alan Feuer vomit on his own shoes, delicately wipe them off, and then return to pounding shots and writing crap? Were you there on a night when George Rush locked the bar door and made everyone drink Jagermeister-and-pineapple while he serenaded them with his 20-chorus version of Maxine Nightingale's "Right Back Where We Started From"? Did you once catch Michael Daly drinking bourbon from a flask in the men's room and chase it with tap water directly from the faucet? We want to hear your stories. *

Should there be enough response (and, sure, you can nominate yourself) we will be proud to announce the winner of the first Steve Dunleavy's Liver Memorial Award For Drinking In The Line Of Duty. Send your alky anecdotes here.

* Offer probably void if story includes George Gurley because, fuck, that dude's like a pharmacy.