So...me and a buddy are at a bar swilling whiskey with our beers and, like a couple kids asking for five more minutes to sleep before going to school, we decide to beg the bartender for one more shot even though it's well past the cut off point and the bartender announces, much to our manly pride, that even if she could serve us we have already drank all the Jameson in the establishment.
Last thing I remember I'm berating the owner of the bar for his failure to appease the needs of his Irish-American patrons and outlining the possible downfalls of his clearly racist behavior while using a Marine Corps issue K-Bar fighting knife as a visual aid.
I get the impression that my point of argument is taken with begrudging respect just before I black out.
I regain consciousness three days later to find myself with a bloodstained sheriff's badge pinned through my nipple while I'm urinating into the upturned vagina of a Kappa Kappa Ki sorority girl with a tattoo on the small of her back that read, "This Too Shall Pass." Meanwhile, I'm thinking to myself that I understood why there was a goat in the hotel room, but who was the sick bastard who nailed all the gerbils to the wall?
Ahhh! If only I could be as young as I was.
As young as I was earlier this afternoon.
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