Ya know, I'm starting to really enjoy writing up my experiences for this website, and enough fucked up shit happened last night for a new one.

Okay, so I take off early from work, (because I hate my job, and 90% of the people I work with are dipshits), and come home to continue the tedious editing process on my second novel. Now, when I write or edit, I drink, and I downed about half a fifth of Vodka before my roommate Kyle got home from HIS job.

By the way, I drink Vodka and Propel Fitness Water whenever I'm given the choice. Why? Because Propel comes in a variety of flavors, and it counters the dehydrating effects of the Vodka, thus preventing hangover. Case in point, Kyle and I both drank enough last night to kill ten or more giraffes, yet, while I'm well enough to eat delivered pizza and type away on this laptop, Kyle is laid up in catatonic agony, cursing my good Scottish name and coming up with new ways to orchestrate my death. Ya see, HE'S hung over, but I'm not, and it's not just because I'm a bad motherfucker either. I drank Propel fitness water and Vodka, while he drank Crown and Coke.

Who's laughing now, Fuckface?

I really shouldn't talk shit about Kyle, 'cause he only went out because I pestered him for twenty minutes beforehand. I can be quite persuasive when I wanna be, (i.e. putting Kyle in ankle locks while he's sitting on the couch, and furiously shaking one of his three cats and tossing it into his lap), and he knew it was either go, or endure an entire night of my drunken prodding.

He chose wisely, because my next tactic was to take a dump in a Ziploc bag and mail it to his sister.

So we go out to Burgermeister, of all places, and I'm a little disappointed that no one seems to recognize us. I even grabbed our waitress by the arm and slurred, "HEY!!! Don't you know who I am?!? I was here on New Year's Eve!!! And my buddy... My buddy Carl here- I mean Kyle- He punched somebody right in the face... Damn it!"

She promptly rolled her eyes and walked away. Now, if it's not already obvious, I was hammered. And to add to my normal drunken antics, I'd spent my half day at work reading the website www.tuckermax.com.

For those of you who excel at depriving yourselves of cool shit, Tucker Max is this guy who writes up his life stories like I do- only much better! Instead of getting into fistfights like a stupid Mississippi redneck, Tucker pimps. This guy's stories are freaking hilarious: http://tuckermax.com/bd.htm, and I must admit that he appears to have more "game" than I do. I know that sounds impossible because I'm ultra mega super suave, but sometimes you must concede to a superior pimplord. Of course, I could beat Tucker's skinny ass like a drum, so I'm not too terribly jealous.

Anyway, so I'm reading the Tucker Max Advice Board, and I come across a spiel on basic "game."

http://messageboard.tuckermax.com/showthread.phps=e2ff735e4426f91847442ae001d3cc40&threadid=1945

After reading through this carefully, I realize that I already have an enormous amount of "game," and there's no reason I shouldn't seduce a lusty wench and take her home for the evening. That night, I set my sights on our waitress at Burgermeister.

I don't think I ever caught her name, so we'll just call her "Sperm Reservoir." Sperm is a tall brunette with short hair and a boyish build. She's kind of waifish, but very, very cute in that "Keira Knightley" kind of way. If you don't know who Keira Knightley is, then you're gay, and you don't have to worry about women.

So, as soon as we sit down, I start spitting mad "game" at Sperm Reservoir, and she's laughing and flirting back. Eventually, my tomfoolery draws the attention of these two guys sitting at the table next to us, and they join in the fun.

I would come to learn that Ed and Aaron are brothers, and they like to drink Irish whiskey. With my Jedi powers, I instantly pick up on the fact that the older brother, Ed, is a narcissistic prick, (like me), and destined to piss me off at some point in the night. Fortunately, Ed's one redeeming quality is that he likes to buy drinks, and he kept telling the waitress to "hook us up" with something called Jimmerson James. I may be spelling that wrong, 'cause I was too drunk to remember, but the point is that this Irish whiskey kicked Kyle and me right in the dick.

The younger brother, Aaron, is quieter and more reserved, but he also has that white guy "thug" thing going on, and I don't like that. Ya know what I'm talking about? It's where suburban white guys try to talk ghetto, like Eminem, but instead of coming across "hard," they come across as poser sell out wannabes. This alone is usually enough to warrant me beating someone's ass, but, again, Kyle and I were getting free drinks off these two zeros, and that earned them a stay of execution.

Ya know, now that I think about it, I really shouldn't call them "zeros". Ed and Aaron were okay guys; in fact, Ed was in the military as a combat photographer, and we should always support our troops. Okay, scratch, "zero" and replace it with, um... I got it! Cunt Tamer! Yeah, Cunt Tamer! I like that. Ed and Aaron were a couple of Cunt Tamers!

Moving on...

While Kyle adamantly disagrees this morning, I thought I was doing okay with the waitress- that is until I threw up on myself.

Let me just say that this NEVER happens to me. I know I threw up on New Year's Eve, but that was from the smell of shit- not from drinking. I can hold my liquor. I really can. But last night something in me decided that the best course of action was to vomit.

Sooo very embarrassing...

At some point, Kyle and I had made the transition from table to bar, and I was just sitting there in a drunken stupor, when suddenly I started to vomit. I didn't spew all over the bar, mind you, I remained exactly where I was in an upright sitting position, and vomited down the front of my shirt.

If it hadn't happened to me, I wouldn't have believed it possible. There was no wrenching, no heaving. The contents of my stomach simply welled up and overflowed. Looking at my soiled shirt this morning, it doesn't appear that I threw up that much. Maybe a quarter gallon. Nevertheless, this totally ruined my chances with the waitress, for I went from witty, fun-loving patron, to slovenly, vomiting drunk guy.

Not a good transition to make, even with "game".

Everything after that is a blur. I woke up this morning to find my jeans ripped apart- and I mean LITERALLY ripped apart. Kyle is of the opinion that we came home and grappled in the living room floor, but I don't remember that.

Whatever the case, I wanted to share this story because there was indeed a fight involved. After we staggered out into the parking lot, the brothers- Ed and Aaron- got into an argument. I remember this only vaguely, but the younger one, Aaron, did something that was tactically brilliant. While Ed was mid-sentence cussing him out for God only knows what, Aaron grabbed Ed by the lapel of his shirt and head-butted him right in the face.

Ladies and Gentlemen, it was brutal!

Ed's face exploded like a dropped pumpkin, blood spilling from his broken nose and split upper lip. GROSS!!! There was blood everywhere! On his shirt, on the sidewalk, on the car they were standing by. I guess you really don't realize how much blood the human body contains until you see it gushing everywhere.

Anyway, I don't know what happened to the brothers. Kyle went inside and got the management of Burgermeister, but we left before anything else happened.

What occurred afterwards is a mystery. My jeans are, again, ripped apart, but my ass doesn't hurt, so I don't guess that Kyle secretly butt-raped me. Amazingly, I'm not that hung over, but it's entirely possible that I'm still drunk. Kyle, on the other hand, is a moaning, bedridden lump of complaining misery, and even though I sprung for pizza, he says he hates me for talking him into going out.

What's the point of all this? Head-butting someone is a good way to RUIN THEIR SHIT!!! You don't even have to do it that hard either, so add that to your arsenals, boys and girls, and stay away from Irish whiskey.