Well, I am. And a fairly imposing one I've been told. HOWEVER, in the world of drinking I am lacking a certain... I don't know what. Though, really, I do know what. I am a man unable to chug. There, I said it. It’s out in the open. I stand before you a naked drunkard completely weak in that regard. I HAVE THE GAG REFLEX OF A 12 YEAR OLD GIRL. However, I have a mouth with a volume just shy of 6 ounces. So in times of need I can impress by downing half a bottle into my mouth, and then taking three swallows to end it all. But I cannot chug. period. People hand me their beers at closing and while I cannot “slam” them traditionally, I can drink them with a quickness. Tonight my manhood was called into question when, at last call, I was given two bottle of “the champagne of beers” to finish. I did this handily, though, they were looking for something in the 8 second area. I CANNOT do this. In order for me to drink that fast I would need the cruel tutelage of Pei Mei. I cannot. This is a fault. One I wish to work on. It is my only downfall as a Major League Drinker. Volume? Check. Drunken Skill games? Check. Trash talk? Check. Power hour champion? Please bitch, I used to century club before the bar! Oh… check. ANYHOW! Wow, tonight is the attack of the caps lock key. I cannot chug, no bonging, no slamming, waterfalls are lost on me, and steal cups (beer pong baseball) are not my forte. This is my weakness. Judge me not.
Ok, anyone faint of heart, or weak of stomach need not read past the upcoming period ---->. So, last night, I got drunk after work, at work on homemade wine. It was made in the style of bathtub Pinot Grigio that happens to be 30% alcohol. An old friend and I damaged a gallon, handily. So I get home, change in to my shorts that I wear when I am unsure if anyone (read: my brother and his trailer slut) is coming home and don’t need my cock flopping in the breeze if they walk in (I may be fat, but I love to nude up). So I decide to check my e-mails and the like and start farting like it’s my job. I love it when this happens as I get to try to stink myself out of my own chair. So, I lift my leg to fart and push so as to make some noise off the leather chair when it happens. No warning, no prior fart with a knock on the back door saying, “hey fatty! Got some liquid here wanting out!” no quick heating sensation that causes all assholes to slam shut, no nothing. The only thing alerting me to the fact that I just evacuated my bowels into my shorts was the sensation of volume growth between the cheeks and the liquid squeak (picture squeezing a water bottle till there’s nothing left type of squeak) I heard. We’re talking no warning, unprovoked, no chatter, no intel, no foreshadowing or allusion, and if there was it was all mishandled type of shart. This was the 9-11 of sharts. When I finally hit the toilette I could picture people running from the stream of liquishits flowing from my ass. So after a careful, yet thought provoking amount of time I decided to shower. Just as I’m about to finish up and jump out, I a quivering, a rumbling, hell a booming voice from the heavens that says I’m not done yet. So… yeah… I hunch over in the shower and let the second tower fall. Oddly enough, not a solid chunk in the bunch to get caught up in the drain. SO, why do I share this with you all? Well, aside from the fact I find it funny as fuck, I now what you would call “gun shy”. I have to carefully mete out my farts. To monitor them and even carefully expel them. The old adage rings true: once bitten, twice shy ( oh great white, when will you cease to be a guiding force in the universe?). Anyhow, I suggest to you dear reader, should you find yourself in this position, do not blog about it. As I am sure I will wake in the morning (read as: afternoon) and slap my forehead in amazement that I thought this would be a good blog post. Hehehehehehehe.