Have you ever had the pleasure of taking a cross-continental red-eye flight sitting next to a guy who is absolutely drunk? I'm talking fall-down, stumble-around, Port-Authority-wino drunk. He came on to the plane trashed, and then ordered two or three scotches the first time the beverage cart came through — I'm not sure exactly how many because I was trying hard not to look at him, lest he interpret a glance as an opening to converse.
I wore earphones, and read and watched TV intently in an effort to ward off conversation, but he kept tapping me on the shoulder, so I'd have to take the earphones off to get some inane statement or question and a noseful of alcohol breath. "Where're you from?" "What're you doing?" And once, simply, "Cookies." And after every single thing he uttered, he offered his fist for a fist-bump.
Low-light of the episode: He once again taps me on the shoulder, so I have to take my protective earphones off, and he whispers conspiratorially, "Do you eat Xanax?"
If there was any doubt of exactly how drunk he was, it would have been erased when I walked behind him on the jetway… his pants were down below his butt (although I think that was a fashion choice), and he literally veered left and right, bumping into the walls.