Fancy came over on Friday with, I shit you not, FOUR huge beers from Whole Paycheck. Four large beers, thirty one dollars. It was supposed to be some really kickass gourmet beer, but it had an incredibly retarded name, like monobrow or something. You'd think there'd be a rule in the beer industry to not name your product after a genetic deficiency, but whatever. I'll still be at the store, buying Sickle Cell Anemia and Fetal Alcohol Syndrome when they hit the shelves.
Anyways, we had the brilliant idea of drinking them in order of worst rated to best rated, completely forgetting the fact that we would be way too royally smashed to even taste the last beer. By the time I was done with the last glass, I was fading in and out of consciousness, so I took a quick zone-out while Fancy fielded long-distance booty calls with diarrhea-like regularity (or so he told me when I woke up). I'd accuse him of sleeping with my girlfriend or something, but he always says he did that, so there's absolutely no point in trying to call him on it.
So anyways, he was pretty smashed near the end too, and in the process of handing his child off to a random stranger that drove near the house, he also gave away his car keys, meaning I had to drive him home. That was a challenge. There are no less than four bars on the way to his house. The next day, my head was like the talking drums of Africastralia or wherever they come from. It was literally like my brain was trying to punish me for driving Fancy home with the power of techno. Next time, he can sleep in the backyard.
