The Lame Game

There are few things as sorry on this miserable ball of mud as the drunkard who falters along the path. Last night, the authors ran across an old friend in town for a wedding. While we were cavorting with the groom, it became evident that after years of drinking sloth he is a pale shadow of the once potent alkie that I once admired.

When he reads this in a few days, presumably back home on the left coast, I hope he is shamed. (Only eight or so drinks a month? You pansy!)We helped raise this fellow during his underage years through his twenties with great care and interest. Was it his own marriage that caused him to scale back his drinking? Nope, she's cool. Religious nutbag? Nope, he is as irreverent as ever...this is a case of laziness and lack of effort.

Well, we're going to remedy this atrocity. Fucker best put his drinking clothes on for the weekend, 'cause the shit is going to hit the fan.

Update: Pukey McPuke...heh heh...see what slowing down does for you? How did you get back to the room, sir?