blotto

(Very) drunk or intoxicated.

Dear old Squiffy was always rather a lad for the wassail-bowl. When I met him in Paris, I remember, he was quite tolerably blotto.

I drank a lot of wine – and afterwards, at Les Vikings, Akvavit – and was completely blotto (well, not completely, but enough to talk a lot and get the Hungarian talking and not be bored).

A person who is (very) drunk or intoxicated.

Remember, Blanche DuBois was a blotto and her trip to New Orleans didn't get her anywhere. Nuff said.

His [Joe Jonsson's] drawings and rollicking humor about burglars, cardsharps, turf punters, jockeys and "blottos" (drunks) were a continuation in theme of the work of the early Bulletin artists Alf Vincent and Ambrose Dyson.

An artwork created using blots of ink or paint.

The authors' most penetrating work seems to me, their contribution along the lines of the interview with the child, the use of sketches, blottoes, etc. "Draw a picture of this house. Who lives there? Show where the different members sleep" […]

The pictures on these cards which I am going to show you are such ink-blot pictures. They do not really represent anything. They are accidental blottos. All you have to do is to look at them one by one and tell me what they might be, what they could represent for you.

To become or cause to become (very) drunk or intoxicated.

An entire bottle would have blottoed me. I marvel how Leigh managed to give my name to the manager.

Wherever distilled spirits dominate over beer or wine, this nocturnal culture emerges, and with it the kind of alcoholism that never plateaus but merely blottoes, retreating into a night of its own and sometimes remaining there for a week at a time. You witness this among Poles, Russians, Swedes and Finns, all of whom are expert blottologists.

To be annihilated or destroyed; to be blotted out.

[H]is soul, spinning in centrifugal lust and fury until he sputters out through the hole in the center of him; going down like a gas bag—vault, cellar, ribs, skin, blood, tissue, mind, and heart all consumed, devoured, blottoed in final annihilation.

John Huston provides a few of the worst moments himself, or, at least, his tape editor does it for him by bumblingly patching on Huston's voice in one series of spot announcements—Jehovah himself dictating Creation to the sounds of [Toshiro] Mayuzumi's fade-in, fade-out neo-primordial slither. Even for what it is, the music is badly performed, poorly recorded, and blottoed by a veritable orgy of editing and dial diddling.