Pubscrawl by McBourbon I had to cover it sooner or later, so I’m going to discuss the puking masses of humanity covered in permanent marker we all know and love…the drunks.
I’m not opposed to this classless group of wandering bastards, mostly because I find myself wandering with them at times, but there is still something I need to get off of my chest about drinking and what it does to people.
From my spot here at the end of the bar, I’ve become a bit of an elitist because I recognize patterns of behavior and try not to replicate them. For example…I have no desire to down a fifth of Black Velvet with a Coke chaser and then try to pick up women. If you’ve attempted this, you know that you usually end up with some toothless Neanderthal woman with a mullet who is wondering why no one has asked her to dance to the last slow song of the night or, if was a particularly good year for BV, a man with the same qualifications as the woman I just described. You sleep with them and then wake up ashamed, penniless, and with the taste of dip spit, cigarettes, and pork or fish in your mouth and a Sharpie Tattoo which reads Insert Dick Here on the side of your cheek with an arrow pointing toward your mouth. That sucks, and it should convince you to quit drinking until the next time the guys get together for a night out.
Worse yet is getting passed-out drunk with your former fraternity brothers during Homecoming who will pull your pants down and take pictures of you in your underwear (or less) in various sports poses holding various sports equipment near or, god forbid in, your ass. This should be avoided at all costs. Besides, what are you doing back at college anyway? At your age, the college hotties just laugh at you with their friends in the bathroom when you try to pick them up anyway.
Worst of all drunks are the beer toughs who get ripped on Budweisers all night and then intentionally bump into you just so they can blame you for the contact and start a fight. These assclowns should be lined up and dealt with in Flamethrower fashion. They serve no purpose except to spoil someone else’s good time. If you are this type of drunk, do the world a favor and kill yourself. (Note: McBourbon and McBourbon’s friends, family, co-workers, and associates cannot be held responsible if you should do something as foolish as what he just suggested in the previous sentence. Should you find yourself in a position where you might kill yourself based on McBourbon’s advice in this column, seek help first or just do it. There is obviously something wrong with you and not him, and he refuses to take any more responsibility for your stupidity.)
What I can say for the drunks, however, is that for all of them that are assholes looking for a fight (and there are plenty of those), the majority of them are fun-loving and harmless fools who will remember only bits and pieces of the previous night. So I say, screw with ‘em! I’m all for the Sharpie tattoos and sport poses. Hell, you could even go so far as to drop them off in a vacant lot or empty field with nothing but their boxer shorts, a flashlight, and a note stapled to their chest that includes some sort of graphic designs with subtitles underneath it which thank the victim for donating his body to alien research. And spank his ass a lot before you drop him off. The anal probe stories he’ll tell will stick with you and your friends for a lifetime.
Oh…and if you should see me in this condition at the end of the bar, just call my fiancé and tell her it happened again. She’ll understand and then pick me up in the field.
