“Drink responsibly.” Talk about an oxymoron.

Don’t we already have enough responsibility in our lives?

Kids. Job. Clients. Decisions. Paying bills. Making deadlines. Watching your weight. Mowing the lawn. Filling the tank. Initiating foreplay. Then there’s moral responsibility, civic responsibility, fiduciary responsibility. Don’t you just want to say “screw responsibility” some times? Those times were made for drinking.

Yet you can’t even do that without being constantly pressured by every single ad for beer, wine or booze to “drink responsibly”. I’m not even sure exactly what that means, but I’ve got news — the last thing I want to be when I’m drinking — is responsible. All this responsibility is the reason I’m drinking in the first place.

But how about just a little drunk. Laugh-out-loud-drunk. Who gives a crap? drunk. Let’s-get-naked-and-jump-in-the-ocean drunk. Come to think of it, just drunk enough to briefly overlook the mountain of responsibility we face daily. Isn’t that what alcohol was intended for?

So if you’re suffering from assorted ills, angsts and nagging negativity, here are a few of my prescriptions for irresponsible drinking.

The martini is the cocktail of choice when you feel like a sophisticated inebriation. There is something genuinely cool about a martini, the ritual, the shape of the glass, the purity of the liquid, interrupted only by glorious green olives. This is a drink for adults. The whole gestalt says, “This is not for kids, I’m a big boy now.”

The original, classic version is made with British gin, just an eye-drop or two of dry vermouth, straight up, ice cold, olives and a twist, so you can eat while you drink. Make it vodka if you must, but know that any ‘tini made with watermelon, kiwi, chocolate or anything other than gin or vodka is not a martini, it’s a high-octane, Technicolor dessert. For purists like me, gin is the choice. And one is enough as there’s something about that spirit’s almost hallucinogenic effectiveness that makes everything else seem like mother’s milk. Remember, there’s a fine line between dirty martinis and nasty divorce. Speaking of which, if I want dirt in my food, I’ll eat it directly from the ground. Dirty is for sex, not martinis.

There always seems to be an element of danger associated with tequila. I suspect that often derives from that first college trip to Cancun, when you go to some place with a name like Carlos & Charlies, where the waiters come along to your table with a type of elongated flask-like device, and inject a dose or two of cheap tequila down your gullet, returning repeatedly, until you find yourself semi-conscious, with your pants around your ankles, in a Mexican whorehouse, yelling for your mama.

If you go the margarita route, avoid all that pre-mixed crap and frozen goop. Have it made, or make it yourself, with just fresh-squeezed lime juice, Cointreau and a 100% agave tequila. Anything more than that is superfluous. Viva Mexico!