this is an old one but a great one.
If you dont like this email, then you just don't understand.
A chronology of events for Saturday,  December 4, 1999, and the early morning hours of Sunday, December 5, 1999: 6:00 Arise, play the Eyes of Texas and Texas Fight at full-freaking blast 6:20 Get in car, drive to New Braunfels  7:30 Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time of the morning) 8:50 Turn 9 (crack open first beer) 8:53 Crack open second beer 8:58 Crack open...(you get the idea) 10:30 Finish 18 (holes, as well as beers), sign scorecard for smoooooth 95 10:35 Headed for San Antonio 10:50 Buy three 18-packs for pre- and post-game festivities 11:10 We decide we don't have enough booze, so we double-back to a liquor store and buy the good ol' 750 ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam 11:50 Arrive at the tailgate spot.
Awesome day.
Not a single cloud in the sky.
About 70 degrees.
11:55 I decide that we're going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
11:56 I tell my first Nebraska fan to go fuck himself.
12:15 The UT band walks by on the way to the Alamodome.
We're on the second floor of a two-story parking garage on the corner (a couple hundred of us).
We're hooting and hollering like wildmen.
The band doubles back to the street right below us and serenades us with Texas Fight and The Eyes of Texas.
AWESOME MOMENT.
12:25 In the post-serenade serendipity, 50-100 grown men are bumping chests with one another, each and every one of them now secure and certain of the fact that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
1:00 The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the Alamodome.
Again, we hoot and holler like wildmen.
Again, the band doubles back and stops right below us to serenade us, this time, however, with the Nebraska fight songs.
Although somewhat impressed by their spirit and verve, we remain convinced that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
1:30 I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow managing to stuff the "Traveler" and 11 cans of beer into my pants.
1:47 I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans.
They are taunting me.
I am taunting back, still certain that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
I decide to challenge a particularly vocal Nebraska fan to play what I now call and will forever be remembered as "Cell-Phone Flop Out."
Remember flop out for a dollar?
The rules are similar.
I tell this Nebraska jackass that if he's so confident in his team, he should "flop out" his cell phone RIGHT NOW and make plane reservations to Phoenix for the Fiesta Bowl.
And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not those damn refundable tickets, either!
You request those non-refundable, non-transferrable sons-of-bitches!"
He backs down.
He is unworthy.
I call Southwest Airlines and buy two tickets to Phoenix, non-refundable and non-transferrable.
Price: $712.
He is humbled.
He lowers his head in shame.
I raise my cell phone in triumph to the cheers of hundreds of Texas fans.
I am KING and these are my subjects.
I distribute the 11 beers in my pants to the cheering masses.
I RULE the pre-game kingdom.
2:34 Kickoff.
Brimming with confidence, I open the Traveler and pour my first stiffy.
2:45 I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big.
Nebraska is fast.
Nebraska is very pissed off at Texas.
3:01 The first quarter mercifully ends.
9 yards total offense for Texas.
Zero first downs for Texas.
I'm still talking shit.
I pour another stiffy from the Traveler.
3:36 Four minutes to go in the first half: the Traveler is a dead soldier.
I buy my first $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants.
While I am standing in line, a center snap nearly decapitates Major Applewhite and rolls out of the end zone.
Safety.
3:56 Halftime score: Nebraska 15, Texas 0.
I wish I had another Traveler.
4:11 While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the bathroom at halftime, I attempt to revive the classic Brice-ism from the South Bend bathroom: "Hey, buddy, niiiiiiiiice cock."
He is unamused.
4:21 I buy my 2nd and 3rd $5 beer from the Alamodome merchants.
I share my beer with two high school girls sitting behind me.
Surprisingly, they are equipped with a flask full of vodka.
I send them off to purchase $5 Sprites, so that we may consume their vodka.
I have not lost faith.
Nebraska is a bunch of pussies.
4:51 No more vodka.
The girls sitting behind me have fled for their lives.
I purchase two more $5 beers from the Alamodome merchants.
5:18 Score is Nebraska 22, Texas 0.
I am beginning to lose faith.
This normally would trouble me, but I am too drunk to see the football field.
5:27 I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir.
Those tickets have been confirmed and are non-refundable and non-transferrable."
5:37 I try to start a fight with every person behind the concession counter.
As it turns out, the Alamodome has a policy that no beer can be sold when there is less than 10 minutes on the game clock.
I am enraged by this policy.
I ask loudly: "Why the fuck didn't you announce last call over the fucking PA system??!!"
5:49 Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in defeat.
All of a sudden, the Texas crowd goes absolutely nuts.
"Whazzis?," I mutter, awaking from my coma, "Iz we winnig?
Did wez scort?"
Alas, the answer is no, we were not winning and we did not score.
The largest (by far) cheer of the day from the Texas faithful occurred when the handlers were walking back to the tunnel and Bevo stopped to take a gargantuan shit all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the "Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone.
I cheer wildly.
I pick up the empty Traveler bottle and stick my tongue in it.
I am thirsty.
6:16 Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back to the truck.
I would taunt them with some off-color remarks about their parentage, but I am too drunk to form complete sentences.
With my last cognitive thought of the evening, I take solace in the fact that if we had not beaten them in October, they would be playing Florida State for the national championship.
6:30 Back in the car.
On the way back to Austin for the 8:00 Texas-Arizona tip off.
We can still salvage the day!
I crack open a beer.
It is warm.
I don't care.
7:12 We have stopped for gas.
I am hungry.
I go inside the store.
I walk past the beer frig.
I notice a Zima.
I've never had a Zima.
I wonder if it's any good.
I pull a Zima from the frig.
I twist the top off and drink the Zima in three swallows.
Zima sucks.
I replace the empty bottle in the frig.
7:17 There is a Blimpie Subs in the store.
I walk to where the ingredients are, where the person usually makes the sub.
There is no one there.
I lean over the counter and scoop out half a bucket of black olives.
I eat them.
I am still hungry.
I lean further over the counter and grab approximately two pounds of Pastrami.
I walk out of the store grunting and eating Pastrami.
The patrons in the store fear me.
I don't care.
8:01 We are in South Austin.
I have been drinking warm beer and singing Brooks and Dunn tunes for over an hour.
My truck-mate is tired of my singing.
He suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn have written other good songs besides "You're Going to Miss Me When I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that maybe listening to only those two songs, ten times each was a bit excessive.
Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the CD play on its own.
I tell him to fuck off and restart "Neon Moon."
8:30 We arrive at the Erwin Center.
My truckmate, against my loud and profane protestations, parks on the top floor of a nearby parking garage.
I tell him he's an idiot.
I tell him we will never get out.
I tell him we may as well pitch a fucking tent here.
He ignores me.
I think he's still pissed about the Brooks and Dunn tunes.
I whistle "Neon Moon" loudly.
8:47 I am rallying.
I have 4 warm beers stuffed in my pants.
We're going to kick the shit out of Arizona.
9:11 Halftime score: Texas 31, Arizona 29.
I am pleased.
I go to the bathroom to pee for the 67th time today.
I giggle to myself because of the new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice."
There are no Arizona fans in the bathroom.
I am disappointed.
I tell myself (out loud) that I have a "Niiiiiice cock."
No one is amused but me.
9:41 I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can.
Needless to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center, much less Bud Light out of a can.
I am stopped by an usher: "Where did you get that, sir?"
I tell him (no shit): "Oh, the cheerleaders were throwing them up with those little plastic footballs.
Would you mind throwing this away for me?"
I take the last swig and hand it to him.
He is confused.
I pretend I'm going to the bathroom, but I run away giggling instead.
I duck into some entrance to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me.
I sneak into a large group of people and sit down.
The usher walks by harmlessly.
I am giggling like a little girl.
I crack open another can of Bud Light.
9:52 I am lost.
In my haste to avoid the usher, I have lost my bearings.
I have no ticket stub.
I cannot find my seats.
Texas is losing.
10:09 Texas is being screwed by the refs.
I am enraged.
I have cleared out the seats around me because I keep removing my hat and beating the surrounding chairs with it.
A concerned fan asks if I'm OK and perhaps I shouldn't take it so seriously.
I tell him to fuck off.
10:15 After the fourth consecutive "worst fucking call I have EVER seen," I attempt to remove my hat again to begin beating inanimate objects.
However, on this occasion I miscalculate and I thumbnail myself in my left eyelid, leaving a one-quarter inch gash over my eye.
I am now bleeding into my left eye and all over my shirt.
"Perhaps," I think to myself, "I'm taking this a bit seriously."
10:22 I am standing in the bathroom peeing.
I'm so drunk I am swaying and grunting.
I have a bloody napkin pressed on my left eye.
My pants are bloody.
I have my (formerly) white shirt wrapped around my waist.
I look like I should be in an episode of Cops.
10:43 Texas has lost.
I put my bloody white shirt back on my body and make my way for the exits.
I am stopped every 20 seconds by a good samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I am covered in blood, but I merely grunt incoherently and keep moving.
10:59 With my one good eye, I have located the parking garage.
I walk up six flights of stairs, promise that when I see my friend I will punch him in the face for making me walk up six flights of stairs, find the truck, and collapse in a heap in the bed of the truck.
I look around and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I take a nap.
11:17 I awake from my nap.
I see my friend in the driver's seat.
I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I am too tired to punch my friend.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."
11:31 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."
11:38 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."
11:47 I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."
11:58 I am jostled.
The truck is moving.
I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is beginning to move on the second floor.
I jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the parking facility, and pee off the sixth floor onto the street below.
My friend looks at me like I just anally violated his minor sister.
I turn around and pee on the front of his truck while singing the lyrics to "Neon Moon."
12:11 We are moving.
We are out of beer.
I jump from the truck and go from vehicle to vehicle until someone gives me two beers.
I am happy.
I return to my vehicle.
12:26 We have emerged from the parking facility.
We make our way to my apartment and find Ed sitting on the couch with a freshly opened bottle of Glenlivet on the coffee table in front of him.
We are all going to die tonight.
12:59 We have finished three-quarters of the bottle of Glenlivet.
We decide it would be a wonderful idea to go dancing at PollyEsther's.
Ed has to pee.
He walks down the hall to our apartment and directly into the full length mirror at the end of the hall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces.
We giggle uncontrollably and leave for PollyEsther's.
1:17 The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably at our efforts to enter his club.
"Fellas," he says in between his fits of spastic laughter, "I've been working this door for almost a year.
I've been working doors in this town for almost 5 years.
And I can honestly say that I ain't never seen three drunker mother fuckers than you three.
Sorry, can't let you in."
We attempt to reason with him.
He laughs harder.
1:44 We find a bar that lets us in.
We take two steps in the door and hear "Last call for alcohol!"
I turn to the group and mutter: "See, dat wasn't that fuckin' hard.
Day don't fuckin' do that at the Awamo...the awaom...the alab...fuck it, that stadium we was at today..." We order 6 shots of tequila and three beers.
2:15 Back on the street.
We need food.
We hail a cab to take us the two and one half blocks to Katz's.
The cab fare is $1.60.
We give him $10 and tell him to keep it.
2:17 There is a 20 minute wait.
We give the hostess $50.
We are seated immediately.
2:25 We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb salad, a bowl of soup, two orders of Blueberry blintzes, two Reuben sandwiches, a hamburger, two cheese stuffed potatoes, an order of fries, and an order of onion rings.
2:39 The food arrives.
We are all asleep with our heads on the table.
The waiter wakes us up.
We eat every fucking bit of our food.
Most of the restaurant patrons around us are disgusted.
We don't give a shit.
The tab is $112 with tip.
2:46 I'm sleepy.
9:12 I wake up next to a strange woman.
She is the bartender at Katz's.
She is not pretty.

[Fwd: a day in the life]

this is an old one but a great one.
If you dont like this email, then you just don't understand.
A chronology of events for Saturday, December <NUMBER>, <NUMBER>, and the early morning hours of Sunday, December <NUMBER>, <NUMBER>: <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Arise, play the Eyes of <STATE> and <STATE> Fight at full-freaking blast <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Get in car, drive to New Braunfels <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Tee off (me and a buddy were the FIRST tee-time of the morning) <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Turn <NUMBER> (crack open first beer) <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Crack open second beer <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Crack open...(you get the idea) <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Finish <NUMBER> (holes, as well as beers), sign scorecard for smoooooth <NUMBER> <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Headed for San Antonio <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Buy three <NUMBER>-packs for pre- and post-game festivities <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We decide we don't have enough booze, so we double-back to a liquor store and buy the good ol' <NUMBER> ml plastic bottle "Traveler" Jim Beam <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Arrive at the tailgate spot.
Awesome day.
Not a single cloud in the sky.
About <NUMBER> degrees.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I decide that we're going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I tell my first Nebraska fan to go fuck himself.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> The UT band walks by on the way to the Alamodome.
We're on the second floor of a two-story parking garage on the corner (a couple hundred of us).
We're hooting and hollering like wildmen.
The band doubles back to the street right below us and serenades us with <STATE> Fight and The Eyes of <STATE>.
AWESOME MOMENT.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> In the post-serenade serendipity, <NUMBER>-<NUMBER> grown men are bumping chests with one another, each and every one of them now secure and certain of the fact that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> The Nebraska band walks by on the way to the Alamodome.
Again, we hoot and holler like wildmen.
Again, the band doubles back and stops right below us to serenade us, this time, however, with the Nebraska fight songs.
Although somewhat impressed by their spirit and verve, we remain convinced that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I begin the walk to the Alamodome, somehow managing to stuff the "Traveler" and <NUMBER> cans of beer into my pants.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I am in line surrounded by Nebraska fans.
They are taunting me.
I am taunting back, still certain that we are going to kick the shit out of Nebraska.
I decide to challenge a particularly vocal Nebraska fan to play what I now call and will forever be remembered as "Cell-Phone Flop Out."
Remember flop out for a dollar?
The rules are similar.
I tell this Nebraska jackass that if he's so confident in his team, he should "flop out" his cell phone RIGHT NOW and make plane reservations to Phoenix for the Fiesta Bowl.
And then I spoke these memorable words: "And not those damn refundable tickets, either!
You request those non-refundable, non-transferrable sons-of-bitches!"
He backs down.
He is unworthy.
I call Southwest Airlines and buy two tickets to Phoenix, non-refundable and non-transferrable.
Price: <CUR><NUMBER>.
He is humbled.
He lowers his head in shame.
I raise my cell phone in triumph to the cheers of hundreds of <STATE> fans.
I am KING and these are my subjects.
I distribute the <NUMBER> beers in my pants to the cheering masses.
I RULE the pre-game kingdom.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Kickoff.
Brimming with confidence, I open the Traveler and pour my first stiffy.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I notice something troubling: Nebraska is big.
Nebraska is fast.
Nebraska is very pissed off at <STATE>.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> The first quarter mercifully ends.
<NUMBER> yards total offense for <STATE>.
Zero first downs for <STATE>.
I'm still talking shit.
I pour another stiffy from the Traveler.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Four minutes to go in the first half: the Traveler is a dead soldier.
I buy my first <CUR><NUMBER> beer from the Alamodome merchants.
While I am standing in line, a center snap nearly decapitates Major Applewhite and rolls out of the end zone.
Safety.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Halftime score: Nebraska <NUMBER>, <STATE> <NUMBER>.
I wish I had another Traveler.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> While urinating next to a Nebraska fan in the bathroom at halftime, I attempt to revive the classic Brice-ism from the South Bend bathroom: "Hey, buddy, niiiiiiiiice cock."
He is unamused.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I buy my 0nd and 0rd <CUR><NUMBER> beer from the Alamodome merchants.
I share my beer with two high school girls sitting behind me.
Surprisingly, they are equipped with a flask full of vodka.
I send them off to purchase <CUR><NUMBER> Sprites, so that we may consume their vodka.
I have not lost faith.
Nebraska is a bunch of pussies.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> No more vodka.
The girls sitting behind me have fled for their lives.
I purchase two more <CUR><NUMBER> beers from the Alamodome merchants.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Score is Nebraska <NUMBER>, <STATE> <NUMBER>.
I am beginning to lose faith.
This normally would trouble me, but I am too drunk to see the football field.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I call Southwest Airlines: "I'm sorry, sir.
Those tickets have been confirmed and are non-refundable and non-transferrable."
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I try to start a fight with every person behind the concession counter.
As it turns out, the Alamodome has a policy that no beer can be sold when there is less than <NUMBER> minutes on the game clock.
I am enraged by this policy.
I ask loudly: "Why the fuck didn't you announce last call over the fucking PA system??!!"
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Back in my seats, I am slumped in my chair in defeat.
All of a sudden, the <STATE> crowd goes absolutely nuts.
"Whazzis?," I mutter, awaking from my coma, "Iz we winnig?
Did wez scort?"
Alas, the answer is no, we were not winning and we did not score.
The largest (by far) cheer of the day from the <STATE> faithful occurred when the handlers were walking back to the tunnel and Bevo stopped to take a gargantuan shit all over the letters "S", "K", and "A" in the "Nebraska" spelled out in their end zone.
I cheer wildly.
I pick up the empty Traveler bottle and stick my tongue in it.
I am thirsty.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Nebraska fans are going berserk as I walk back to the truck.
I would taunt them with some off-color remarks about their parentage, but I am too drunk to form complete sentences.
With my last cognitive thought of the evening, I take solace in the fact that if we had not beaten them in October, they would be playing Florida State for the national championship.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Back in the car.
On the way back to Austin for the <NUMBER>:<NUMBER> <STATE>-Arizona tip off.
We can still salvage the day!
I crack open a beer.
It is warm.
I don't care.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We have stopped for gas.
I am hungry.
I go inside the store.
I walk past the beer frig.
I notice a Zima.
I've never had a Zima.
I wonder if it's any good.
I pull a Zima from the frig.
I twist the top off and drink the Zima in three swallows.
Zima sucks.
I replace the empty bottle in the frig.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> There is a Blimpie Subs in the store.
I walk to where the ingredients are, where the person usually makes the sub.
There is no one there.
I lean over the counter and scoop out half a bucket of black olives.
I eat them.
I am still hungry.
I lean further over the counter and grab approximately two pounds of Pastrami.
I walk out of the store grunting and eating Pastrami.
The patrons in the store fear me.
I don't care.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We are in South Austin.
I have been drinking warm beer and singing Brooks and Dunn tunes for over an hour.
My truck-mate is tired of my singing.
He suggests that perhaps Brooks and Dunn have written other good songs besides "You're Going to Miss Me When I'm Gone" and "Neon Moon" and that maybe listening to only those two songs, ten times each was a bit excessive.
Perhaps, he suggests, I could just let the CD play on its own.
I tell him to fuck off and restart "Neon Moon."
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We arrive at the Erwin Center.
My truckmate, against my loud and profane protestations, parks on the top floor of a nearby parking garage.
I tell him he's an idiot.
I tell him we will never get out.
I tell him we may as well pitch a fucking tent here.
He ignores me.
I think he's still pissed about the Brooks and Dunn tunes.
I whistle "Neon Moon" loudly.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I am rallying.
I have <NUMBER> warm beers stuffed in my pants.
We're going to kick the shit out of Arizona.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Halftime score: <STATE> <NUMBER>, Arizona <NUMBER>.
I am pleased.
I go to the bathroom to pee for the 00th time today.
I giggle to myself because of the new opportunity to do "the bathroom Brice."
There are no Arizona fans in the bathroom.
I am disappointed.
I tell myself (out loud) that I have a "Niiiiiice cock."
No one is amused but me.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I walk to the bathroom while drinking Bud Light out of a can.
Needless to say, they do not sell beer at the Erwin Center, much less Bud Light out of a can.
I am stopped by an usher: "Where did you get that, sir?"
I tell him (no shit): "Oh, the cheerleaders were throwing them up with those little plastic footballs.
Would you mind throwing this away for me?"
I take the last swig and hand it to him.
He is confused.
I pretend I'm going to the bathroom, but I run away giggling instead.
I duck into some entrance to avoid the usher, who is now pursuing me.
I sneak into a large group of people and sit down.
The usher walks by harmlessly.
I am giggling like a little girl.
I crack open another can of Bud Light.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I am lost.
In my haste to avoid the usher, I have lost my bearings.
I have no ticket stub.
I cannot find my seats.
<STATE> is losing.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> <STATE> is being screwed by the refs.
I am enraged.
I have cleared out the seats around me because I keep removing my hat and beating the surrounding chairs with it.
A concerned fan asks if I'm OK and perhaps I shouldn't take it so seriously.
I tell him to fuck off.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> After the fourth consecutive "worst fucking call I have EVER seen," I attempt to remove my hat again to begin beating inanimate objects.
However, on this occasion I miscalculate and I thumbnail myself in my left eyelid, leaving a one-quarter inch gash over my eye.
I am now bleeding into my left eye and all over my shirt.
"Perhaps," I think to myself, "I'm taking this a bit seriously."
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I am standing in the bathroom peeing.
I'm so drunk I am swaying and grunting.
I have a bloody napkin pressed on my left eye.
My pants are bloody.
I have my (formerly) white shirt wrapped around my waist.
I look like I should be in an episode of Cops.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> <STATE> has lost.
I put my bloody white shirt back on my body and make my way for the exits.
I am stopped every <NUMBER> seconds by a good samaritan/cop/security guard to ask me why I am covered in blood, but I merely grunt incoherently and keep moving.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> With my one good eye, I have located the parking garage.
I walk up six flights of stairs, promise that when I see my friend I will punch him in the face for making me walk up six flights of stairs, find the truck, and collapse in a heap in the bed of the truck.
I look around and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I take a nap.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I awake from my nap.
I see my friend in the driver's seat.
I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I am too tired to punch my friend.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is lined up all the way around the garage, six whole flights, and no one is moving.
I call my friend a "Stupid fuck."
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I am jostled.
The truck is moving.
I lift my head to look out the bed of the truck and notice that traffic is beginning to move on the second floor.
I jump out of the truck, walk to the edge of the parking facility, and pee off the sixth floor onto the street below.
My friend looks at me like I just anally violated his minor sister.
I turn around and pee on the front of his truck while singing the lyrics to "Neon Moon."
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We are moving.
We are out of beer.
I jump from the truck and go from vehicle to vehicle until someone gives me two beers.
I am happy.
I return to my vehicle.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We have emerged from the parking facility.
We make our way to my apartment and find Ed sitting on the couch with a freshly opened bottle of Glenlivet on the coffee table in front of him.
We are all going to die tonight.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We have finished three-quarters of the bottle of Glenlivet.
We decide it would be a wonderful idea to go dancing at PollyEsther's.
Ed has to pee.
He walks down the hall to our apartment and directly into the full length mirror at the end of the hall, smashing it into hundreds of pieces.
We giggle uncontrollably and leave for PollyEsther's.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> The PollyEsther's doorman laughs uncontrollably at our efforts to enter his club.
"Fellas," he says in between his fits of spastic laughter, "I've been working this door for almost a year.
I've been working doors in this town for almost <NUMBER> years.
And I can honestly say that I ain't never seen three drunker mother fuckers than you three.
Sorry, can't let you in."
We attempt to reason with him.
He laughs harder.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We find a bar that lets us in.
We take two steps in the door and hear "Last call for alcohol!"
I turn to the group and mutter: "See, dat wasn't that fuckin' hard.
Day don't fuckin' do that at the Awamo...the awaom...the alab...fuck it, that stadium we was at today..." We order <NUMBER> shots of tequila and three beers.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> Back on the street.
We need food.
We hail a cab to take us the two and one half blocks to Katz's.
The cab fare is <CUR><NUMBER>.
We give him <CUR><NUMBER> and tell him to keep it.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> There is a <NUMBER> minute wait.
We give the hostess <CUR><NUMBER>.
We are seated immediately.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> We order two orders of fried pickles, a Cobb salad, a bowl of soup, two orders of Blueberry blintzes, two Reuben sandwiches, a hamburger, two cheese stuffed potatoes, an order of fries, and an order of onion rings.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> The food arrives.
We are all asleep with our heads on the table.
The waiter wakes us up.
We eat every fucking bit of our food.
Most of the restaurant patrons around us are disgusted.
We don't give a shit.
The tab is <CUR><NUMBER> with tip.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I'm sleepy.
<NUMBER>:<NUMBER> I wake up next to a strange woman.
She is the bartender at Katz's.
She is not pretty.
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