The Case Against Euphemisms

They're insidious, really. Imperceptibly ingratiating themselves into the vernacular. Euphemisms I'm talking about. Innocuous words we use in substitute for a word that may suggest something unpleasant. Political Correctness Gone Wild.

Sam and I were standing at the meat counter, engaged in the usual banter about dinner choices, and settled on chicken breasts. The deciding factor was the cat puke yellow sign that read, "Chicken Breasts $1.89 per pound." Sold. Except there was one more hurdle to clear before I could go home and stuff my face. They were fresh out of chicken breasts.

"That sucks," Sam says. Eyeing the more expensive chicken breasts.

"Hold on. I'll ask the butcher, or whatever he is, if they have some more in the back." I turned and started in the direction of the butcher's counter, but he was headed in my direction, depositing roasts that would satiate the most ravenous mountain lion along the way. He gave me a nod.

"We were wondering if you have anymore of these chicken breasts in the back," I asked.

"No, we're out, " he offered. And then, as if he were telling me it was 6 o' clock, "With the incident and all, we haven't gotten a shipment. But what I can do is give you a couple of packages of these others for that price, " as he gestured to the sale sign, "Just don't clean me out."

"That works," Sam says. I nod in agreement and off he goes.

I mulled that exchange over a bit. I chuckled a bit, which drew an inquisitive glance from Sam.

"What're you laughing about," she asked. I noticed that the butcher was heading back with our package of chicken. I shook my head "nothing" and we let it go.

Last Sunday an employee of a Safeway distribution warehouse went to work, stormed through the halls shooting his co-workers and randomly setting fires. The police arrived on the scene only to have one of their own also shot by the disgruntled employee. My butcher friend just referred to this surreal scene of mayhem as an "incident."

An incident is when your kid shits his pants, or maybe pisses the bed. This squirrel leapt straight out of his tree, shot numerous co-workers, tried to burn the entire fucking building to the ground and then, since he was tripping anyway, he shot a fucking cop. This fucktard shattered lives. He killed people. He maimed people. He jumped in the express lane to either the sodomy shack or the silly shack. Where he would be today, except he shot a cop. And you know how that book ends. In a church somewhere. Incident? Spare me the euphemism. This was a horrific, terrible thing that happened and we should not dilute the impact it's going to have on families with impotent euphemisms like "incident." Seriously, fuck off with that.

Edlo

Yeah. For whatever reason, probably none at all, I sat at home watching television with the wifey and drank myself drunk. I didn't intend to get drunk. Today was pretty uneventful and placid. I just thought I would have a couple of brews. Then a few more, then a few more, then, suddenly, I'm drunk.

What's even funnier? Sam doesn't really drink. So I drank by myself, watched TV and talked to Sam. Some would say that makes me an alcoholic. Some can suck my dick.

Enlightenment

Defining enlightenment is an arduous undertaking. Much like defining intelligence, the definition hinges on who you ask. Some say enlightenment is a state of consciousness in which there are no doubts and uncertainty. Others, the equally ambiguous "see into one's own nature." I dunno, you decide for yourself. For me, enlightenment is seeing the truth. Knowing what's bullshit, and what isn't.

Yesterday, while surfing Internet news, I ran headlong into yet another story about someone suing McDonald's because he's obese. You've seen this movie before. He claims that the fast food industry made him fat. An obscenely pedestrian and predictable claim anymore. But even worse, it's an abomination against truth.

Listen: You would think someone said there are free doughnuts in the courts the way people are hauling ass to get there. Usually, the defendant is McDonald's. The claim: McDonald's made me fat. This is beyond bullshit. It was bullshit when that woman sued, and won, a claim against McDonald's because she spilled her hot ass coffee all over herself. But McDonald's made me fat? That's new and improved bullshit. Super bullshit. In fact, bullshit doesn't quite capture it. I need a new adjective for this one. But nevermind that, for now.

The assumption is that McDonald's somehow wronged you in order for you to bring suit. What did McDonald's do? The latest "claimant" suggests that McDonald's mislead him about the nutritional value of its food. My incredulity was lodged firmly in my throat and was killing me slowly. Does someone have to tell you that a cheeseburger the size of Nebraska isn't the best thing in the world for you? Or how about the mythically proportioned French fries--deep fried by the way--and an equally biblical soda? Does someone have to tell you it's not health food? If someone does, this is easy, you're a fucktard.

Honestly, McDonald's doesn't deliver. So that means "claimant" has to drive his ass down to McDonald's, stand in line, look over the menu, order, pay, go home and eat enough food to feed Eastern Europe. What did McDonald's do except give you what you wanted? Seriously, claimant is going to have to man up and accept some responsibility for his astronomical cholesterol level. He is a volitional being with the capacity to make his own decisions, and he chose the Mickey D's route. Then named McD's as a defendant. I think he did have some help with identifying a defendant, though.

Morgan Spurlock filmed an entertaining, educational documentary about the ill-effects of eating McDonald's three times a day, while taking a minimalist approach to exercise. Over the course of the "experiment" he received periodical physical examinations. The results of those examinations weren't good. Precipitous weight gain, cholesterol heading skyward, and his liver was somewhere in purgatory and descending fast. All the while blaming McDonald's for all of his failing health. Funny where fads begin.

If someone has to tell you that eating McDonald's three times a day, particularly the meals Spurlock was eating, is going to be adverse to your health, you're in an irreversible vegetative state and someone should pull the fucking plug. Particularly if you watched this documentary, and didn't notice that Spurlock was making the choice to eat at McDonald's. All through the documentary Spurlock speaks ad nauseum about how terrible the food is for you and stuffs his face with the shit. Then, he blames McD's for his failing health. Comical and amusing; good entertainment, but should not serve as a model for naming defendants in litigation.

The basic tenet of the court system is that it exists to provide relief and justice to those wronged by others. It's not there to provide a financial windfall for those who inflict harm upon themselves. Yet judges' dockets are clogged all over the country with these spurious and ridiculous claims. Blocking the avenue of relief for those the court was designed. Asshattery abounds and annoys.

There are people out the who have legitimate claims for relief. I just hope they're not blocked from timely relief because some burger and fries shoveling jackass thinks it's McD's fault that he hasn't seen his dick since Jesus was a baby. Because the truth is that he did it to himself, and he needs to Atlas up and shoulder the blame.

Now, don't you feel enlightened?

The Rebirth of Cool

Somewhere around the elements of a tortious defamation is when it happened. I wondered how I got here. How in the hell does someone like me find himself suddenly concerned with knowing and following rules? I always thought of rules as a suggestion. I grew up loathing social conventions and institutions. Rules? They were for followers, suckers and conformists. Only there to maintain the status quo. Rules existed to pigeon hole and stymie. Sure, I knew consequences existed for breaking the rules, if you got caught. But I didn't give a shit. Of course I knew you can find yourself ostracized from your schoolmates. But fuck them, anyway. I was a cool sonuvabitch. And not the way we mean it now, which is we conform with accepted codes of conduct and dress. But cool as in unaffected by, and indifferent towards, the mundane and accepted. Not so much anymore.

I took a gander through my closet last night. Staring back at me are the staid uniforms of conformity. Button down shirts. Unimaginative sweaters and cardigans. Blazers. Fucking khakis and polos--the uniform of middle management. Oxford shoes. You get the idea.

And it doesn't stop there. Oh no. The most important thing in my life right now is memorizing and applying rules. Freaking out if I can't remember that a principal is only liable for the intentional torts of an agent if a principal agent relationship exists and the agent was operating within the scope of that relationship. Ready to down a Drano cocktail if I can't remember that in order for there to be tortious trespassing the defendant only need intend to enter upon the land. I swear to fuck, I have no idea when all of this shit became so fucking important to me. What's more, I wonder if it is.

A life of following rules and conventions doesn't sound like living. Sounds like a low budget horror flick. Fuck. It's only 11 AM and I feel like a drink or six. There it is again. A social convention raising it's ugly head. No drinks before five, certainly not before noon. Fuck that. I think it's time for me to reclaim my cool. Indeed, the rebirth of cool.

Sunrises

Before the banal bullshit begins. Before the daily tedium. There's the chirping of the birds, rousing from their sleep. The sound of my cat's paws hitting the windowsill, eyes and ears piqued, tracking the sound. I listen closely for a moment; there's not another sound. Sunrise. Drink it in. Revel in it's tranquility. Wallow in the comfort it offers. It's the last bit of peace you're going to have all fucking day.

We have 60,000 thoughts in a day, it's been said. Ninety-eight percent of them are the same as the ones we had yesterday, and same as the ones we'll have tomorrow. And they are laced with our anxieties, our stresses, spite, pettiness, and our self-doubt. Soon the mental conversations that we have each day--all day-- will begin.

Soon the suffering begins. Gotta go to work. Don't wanna go to work. Maybe I'll call in. No, I'll feel bad if I call in. Plus, I'll have to deal with______(insert the name of your resident office asshole here). So you climb out of bed, slumping to the shower as you cast a baleful look at your reflection in the mirror. Thinking about all of the shit you have to accomplish today at work. All the same conversations that you will be involved in today. And how much they resemble the conversations you had last Tuesday, and the Tuesday before that and on and on until it's painfully close to an infinite regression.

Then somewhere it hits you: alarm clock, shower, coffee, dress, commute, insipid office politics, sandwich, more insipid office politics, bitch about commute, dinner, and television. You wonder what it's all about. Is this what you're going to be doing until you're old enough to collect social security? Then will you sit there and suddenly wonder where you put your life, like it's your car keys? Trading hours of your life, each day, for a certain price. Is that what it's really all about? Wondering what other people think of you? Buying shit on television that we don't need? Dealing with issues that don't matter? I can't answer these questions, but I do think the answer lies somewhere in moments like sunrises. Because if you don't take the time to appreciate those moments, one day you're going to be staring into your colostomy bag wondering if you really lived your life, or if you let everyone else live it for you.

A Costly Finger

Normally, giving a fellow motorist the finger won't land your ass in jail. If it did, I would be doing life on the installment plan. No joke. I give someone the finger at least once a week. Sometimes just because I haven't done it all week. The look on those people's face is priceless--better than television. But nevermind that.

"Yo, Simon, are you busy," Kevin asked.

Eyeing my criminal law notes, "Not particularly. Why?"

"Well, I know you're studying," he said. I wondered why he didn't consider that being busy. "But if you could help me unload some stuff out of my car at my job, I'd appreciate it enough to buy you a couple of beers." I glanced at the clock--2pm. Why not? I have been at this since 8 this morning, and my mind was growing increasingly resistant. A break might do me some good.

"Sounds good. Meet me at the spot, and we'll take your car over."

"Cool."

A couple hours later. Kevin and I finished unloading his car, and, while sitting there having a few beers, Kevin decides he needs to go to Kabredlo's for some cigarettes.

"Wanna ride," he asks.

"Why not?" We motion to the bartender and tell him we'll be right back.

We pull out of the parking lot onto a major street. Kevin signals he's turning left. I notice a lady in the turning lane in a white Jeep Cherokee. She's fussing with her blonde,graying hair, talking on the phone and looking frantically around for something. Rudimentary multi-tasking. The light turns green and Kevin accelerates, and decides he needs to be in the far lane. So he signals and starts to switch lanes. Surprisingly, the Jeep Cherokee accelerates abruptly and pulls up next to Kevin forcing him to swerve hard to the left to avoid an accident.

The lady pulls up next to us, rolls down her window, opened her mouth and vomited an extraordinary river of obscenities. Some I've never heard before. Casually, and rightfully, Kevin flipped her off with a "Fuck you, bitch."

She signals for him to pull over. Despite being a little bewildered as to why Kevin is pulling over, I'm laughing hard enough that pissing my pants is a growing concern. I look out the back window. The woman is approaching. Kenny says, "What the fuck is her problem?" She reaches inside her blazer pocket. "Prescription run out, I guess," I laugh. Suddenly all of the humor drained out of the moment. She's leaning in the driver window brandishing a badge and saying, "Do you always spin your tires and nearly cause accidents." Clearly lying. Kevin drives a 1992 Ford Taurus with an automatic transmission.

"You're lying, "Kevin says, "There is no way the tires would spin on this car." I'm growing a bit nervous for Kevin. See, Kevin has two DUI's and, currently, he's on probation for his second one. In fact, he shouldn't be driving anywhere except to work and home. But, that's not the problem, really. The problem is that we have about three beers a piece in us. If given a sobriety test, he's gonna lose.

She reaches in her front jean pocket, fishes out her cell phone and calls for another police officer. Apparently, she's off duty and late for something. She asks Kevin to step out of the car. She asks,"Have you been drinking?" Kevin says, "What the hell is all this?" She pats him down, which is odd. Finds a cell phone and a wallet.

The other police officer arrives. The off-duty officer says, "I think he needs a sobriety test." I'm rifling through my brain. I don't think any of this is legal. I step out of the car.

"Why did you stop us in the first place," I ask. "If anyone did anything wrong, it's this well past her prime Barbie, and she should be the one getting felt up."

"You get back in the car," the woman says.

"Not likely," I said.

"If you don't get back in the car, you're going be arrested for interfering with police work," says the on-duty.

"Oh, is that what you call this? Police work? Because it looks suspiciously like a pre-textual stop with a little racial profiling thrown in for that special touch." I said. I held my ground, but didn't approach. This seemed to satisfy both officers.

The aging Barbie muttered something to the on-duty officer and then left. The on-duty administered a breathalyzer. Kevin is drunk. Off to the pokey, for the second time in less than a year. And I'm standing there on the side of the road, in 90 degree heat, resigning myself to the walk that lies ahead; back to my car, and our bar tab.

Safeway

I'm not sure whether to laugh or boycott. About the only thing I'm certain of is that whoever thought accosting your customers about a donation to prostate cancer research--every fucking time they shop at your store--was a good idea, needs a vicious caning.

Last time I looked, the Vatican of Madison Avenue thought your shopping experience should be comfortable, convenient and easy. Most importantly, in the interest of branding, your store shouldn't be associated with any life-threatening, body-ravaging diseases like, well, cancer. Apparently, Safeway didn't get the memo.

For the past few weeks, each and every time Samantha and I have done the grocery shopping we've been greeted with, " Would you like to donate a dollar to prostate cancer research?" Seriously, if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer not to be reminded of my own mortality each time I do some grocery shopping. I rather not think about a gland that may go off its meds and kill me. I just wanted a quart of milk and some oatmeal. Hell, nevermind that. I don't want to think about the prostate exam. Just picking up some fruit and some veggies to make a salad.

I swear. The Safeway name and logo has become synonymous with intrusive exams, pain, wills, death, painful surgeries, and Draconian treatments to my mind. In this age of branding and marketing, the Safeway shareholders have reason for concern.

Banality

Cancer is curable. Banality is invariably terminal, if you don't look away. I've had two near death experiences the past two mornings.

Sam's enamored with watching The Today Show in the mornings. I don't know why, but I'm sure I do things that annoy and baffle as well, so I don't bother asking. I just watch and flip to Sportscenter intermittently. Anyway, yesterday morning, The Today Show hosted Bill O' Reilly. Matt Lauer cloaked O'Reilly with the gravitas typically reserved for political pundits or, at least, serious investigative journalists. Lauer, with misplaced earnestness, posed the fashionable political questions of the day. I wasn't sure if it was this insipid two step, or my plate of egg whites and oatmeal, but I thought I might hurl.

Listen: O' Reilly doesn't seem to understand that a woman probably doesn't want to exfoliate her nether regions for his amusement. So the complexities of the geopolitical sphere are just a bit out of his reach. His answers were predictable. In fact the only thing interesting about them was the choking arrogance. I thought I would either laugh, or throw up. I thought I might do both at once. That would've been vastly more interesting. Well, I have to admit, as banal as this charade was, there was an interesting aspect. Why was NBC trying pass off this would be Marquis de Sade as a serious poilitcal pundit? I don't have the answer, but it's somewhat interesting to consider. I tossed the remainder of my breakfast in the garbage. I would have been happy to see this segment of The Today Show joining my sorry excuse of a breakfast.

As if this wasn't enough, though, guess who was The Today Show's touchstone guest this morning? Britney Spears. I didn't watch. On the heels of yesterday, it was just too much to ask of me. I saw the trailer. She was crying and sniveling about her and hubby not having the privacy and respect they deserve. Spare me. Spare me the pity party. Spare me the theatrics. But, especially, spare me the banality of watching some multi-millionaire boo-hooing about having exactly what she wanted. Celebrity. Just fuck off.

Nothing In Particular

A trip home on Friday blew an entire day of studying. So I spent most of the day trying to make up for lost time. Not that you ever make up for time, or sleep. Once they're gone, they're gone. I guess it's just another strange idiomatic expression meaning "playing catch up." I was definitely playing from behind today. But 9 hours later, and I think I'm just about on schedule.

Well, more or less 9 hours. I chatted with some of the crew online. You never realize how much time you can spend screwing around online. Incredible, really. Coronary inducing for employers all across the land.

Makes you wonder. Attorneys are always bitching and moaning about working long hours. If they actually worked 8-9 hours a day, maybe the whinge quotient would fall, precipitously. Precipitously. That's a big word for a guy working on his third scotch. Johnnie Walker to be exact.

Tomorrow I plan to plunge headlong into Family Law, or Domestic Relations. Depending on where you're standing. Geography notwithstanding, it's some of the most depressing shit you ever want to commit to memory. Divorce, child custody, pettiness and spitefulness. You get the idea. Running a blade across your wrist might start to look like a good idea after a few years of that shit. And I don't mean the inept melodramatic horizontal swipe that so many engage in. No, I'm talking about the dead serious vertical swipe. More attorneys in that field take the big plunge more often than one might realize. Fucked up.

Anyways, you know how you always hear about how great a show is--usually from the network--but you've never watched it? Well, not only have I been sitting here typing this morbidly insipid post and sipping some J. Dubya, but I've also been watching The Closer. That show gets no fucking love. A floater. Surprising that the network fat cats would allow that to decompose on prime TV real estate.

My glass is empty.

Three Inane Days

The impassive Midwestern landscape told the story. Samantha and I drove home for another of her family's weddings. One cousin after the next falls into an emotional state that can only be described as temporary insanity, and then scurries to the alter to promise to remain in that state for the remainder of their lives. Rare entertainment value the first few times you witness it, but, after you follow suit, it loses its luster. Mildly entertaining, but, mostly, mundane. It was a Methodist wedding, at least. The whole thing lasted about 20 minutes. The centerpiece of three inane days.

I've never found religion particularly interesting, and I think people that make a carnival out of what they do, or do not, believe are vividly vulgar and disgusting. Seriously, what the fuck do you care what I believe or don't believe? Go fuck yourself with your ostentatious displays of feverish faith, or your declarations of intellectual superiority because you don't believe in a paternal superior being floating around in the sky. I'm sick of both groups of people. Judge for yourself, make your own decisions and, then, keep it to yourself. They call it a personal belief system for a reason, you know?

I only bring this up because I was alternately accosted by the two respective groups of people this weekend.

We're sitting there, in the church waiting for the pastor, or whatever Methodists call them, to wrap up his sermon. Just sort of absently gazing around, I catch the gaze of another gentleman. He rolls his eyes. Makes the gesture with his hand that says yakkity-yak. You know the one I'm talking about. I nod shallowly and avert my gaze. Pull my cell phone out of my pocket, send a couple of text messages, and return it to my pocket. Whatever.

Outside the gentleman approaches me and says,

"I can tell you don't believe any of that God shit either." I find Samantha and wave. She waves back. I smile politely uninterested at my new found irritant, but don't say anything.

He knocks my arm, "You know what I mean? Like there's a God." It suddenly occurs to me that this guy probably has a beer or two in his car, and my brother-in-law and I were looking to have a couple before we headed to the reception, which was three hours away.

"Got some brews," I ask finding my brother-in-law about 20 feet away. I beckon. He comes. He knows the look. I scored.

"I got brews and all kinds of shit in the Rover." He says. Another pretentious fuck who thinks the world gives a shit that he's paying too much for transportation. Matt walks up with a wayward glance in my direction, extends his hand and says,

"Matt."

"Bobby."

"Simon."

Bobby asks, "Is your name really Simon?" I smile. I get that a lot.

"Simon says, take me to your imbibe." We laugh.

We're sitting on the back of his rather posh Rover, drinking beer very much in the open, when I get a wild hair up my ass.

"So, Bobby, you're not a believer?" Matt's head snaps in the direction of Bobby. Matt's a true blue Catholic. Except for the drinking, premarital sex, or any other part that doesn't suit him.

"I'm a devout atheist," says Bobby. "You?"

I shrug and start rifling through his CD collection.

"Do you seriously not believe in God,"Matt asks.

"Do you seriously believe in that shit," Bobby asks. I was in the express lane to a world-class headache.

"Got any Dennis Brown, or Black Uhuru?" I ask. I tilt the beer and take a deep drink. Fucking religious conversations have no practical meaning or use.

Vodka Party

Trev: Fucking loaded!!

I glance at the clock. 2 PM. I type back

Me: Wake and drink?

Trev: LOL. Basically. Got off work at noon. Went to Applebee's and got a few cocktails.

Me: If you're loaded, it's more than a few.

Trev: Way more. I think I've spent about $40. All vodka. Vox on the rocks!

Me: You're off to a fast start. I have a few things to finish up here, and I'll meet you later.

Trev: Cool. Call me.

I have my doubts that Trev is going to finish the race.

I pull open the oddly heavy door around 4. Randy and Trev are at the bar. Taking my rightful spot, Faith sets down a beer and a shot. I nod thanks.

"Wassup, "Trev was already slurring his words.

I glance at Randy who's shallowly shaking his head and laughing to himself. Booger sugar, or Trev is in rare form. I can't tell yet.

"Not much," I said. "Looks like you got away with a false start. I have to catch up."

"Good luck, "Randy says.

"It's a vodka party, fellas." Trev gestures to Faith who's furtively searching the door for signs of Kevin. Mildly amusing, but Randy looked dangerously close to spitting his brew across the bar. Booger sugar.

Faith sets down Trev's order of Vox on the rocks. Splash of lemon juice. I could never figure out why he bothered.

"You know what?" Trev started. "I'm sick of all of this fucking bullshit about gay fucking marriages and shit." Trev is in rare form. "Seriously, is this really a fucking issue? The fuck do I care who marries who? Stop talking to me about that shit already!"

Randy and I nod in vague agreement. I down my shooter and gulp my beer. Faith slides down another shot. "On me," she says. "Thanks, " I said.

"I have to agree," I said. "I'm sick of hearing about it. The argument against it is bullshit for certain. It's ruins the sanctity of marriage? You've got fucking 'Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire,' 'The Bachelor,' 'The Bachelorette,' and who the fuck knows what else. I think the sanctity of marriage was ruined long ago."

"Marriage is a reality based TV show, and the Christians don't want to let the gays play," Trev laughed. "Outstanding. I gotta take a squirt."

Randy waits for Trev to leave and then says," Trev isn't going to make it all night."

"He's has before." I said.

"Bet ya a beer."

"Deal." We shake. I announce that I have to take a leak.

I push through the doors. The sound of retch accosts me at the door. Trev is giving up his cookies. The sound almost makes me gag.

While I'm pissing, Trev emerges from one of the stalls. "You got any of those Listerine strips on you? You always have those things." It's true. I'm sorta obsessive about my breath.

"Yeah, but right now I have my dick in my hand, if you wanna just cool out for a second." I begin to wonder whether Randy's beer is empty.

I finish up, wash my hands, and fish a Listerine strip out of my pocket and hand it to Trev, he mutters his thanks.

We belly up to the bar where Randy is waiting. I order him a beer and set it in front of him. He laughs. "Trev, did you give up your cookies?"

"Yep." Then he motioned to Faith. "Vox on the rocks." Stunning. Shocking. Randy and I were both speechless. I wasn't sure I heard him correctly.

"Did you just order another drink," I asked.

"Fuck yeah. Who the fuck do you think I am?" Trev sneered laughingly.

"I can think of three words that have some relevance here,"Randy says, "Acute alcohol poisoning."

"Ahhh, I didn't know you cared," says Trev. "You got your high heels on too, bitch?" We laughed.

The next few hours were a maelstrom of drunken conversation and marveling at Trev's hostility toward his liver. Then, I looked in the mirror at Trev. He lifted his glass, opened his mouth to take a drink, tipped his glass and poured. The only problem was that his mouth and the glass were a good 10 inches apart and he poured his drink onto the bar. He looked around nonchalantly. Grabbed a couple of napkins and began wiping up his mess. I picked up my cell phone and called Samantha.

"Why's he so goddamned pissed at himself?" She asked. I laughed.

"No idea. He's been at this since noon."

"Do you have his keys?" She asked.

"Not yet, but I'll get them."

"Okay, I'll be down there to pick you guys up in about 30 minutes," she said. "You sound like you're going to be hungover in the morning yourself."

"No doubt." I hang up. I tell Randy about the plans to get Trev's keys. He laughs and retrieves the keys from his pocket. I grab them and let him know Sam is on her way. He nods.

"You guys about ready to head out," Trev asks.

"Yeah, just a sec," I said, "I need to close out my tab." Postponing the inevitable blowout about his keys.

Finally, Sam walks through the doors. I turn to Trev and say, "Let's be out."

"Cool," he says. And then to Randy, "I'll drop you."

Randy laughs and says, "You're not driving me anywhere. Sam is going to drop me off."

"Fuck that. I can get you home. I'm not that drunk." Trev says.

"You can't be fucking serious," Sam chimes in. For some reason, this stationed Trev's march into the ridiculous. Begrudgingly he tries handing over the keys that he doesn't have.

"Where the fuck are my keys?!!" Trev asked accusingly. I pulled them out of my pocket.

"Give me my fucking keys!"

"I will when you get home."

"I'm not leaving my fucking car here. Fuck all that."

"That's exactly what you're doing."

"Give me my goddamn keys right now." I start walking toward the door. This is getting loud and the bouncer has cast a curious eye in our direction. Time to go.

Finally, after more verbal wrangling, Trev gets his drunk ass in the car and we get him home. I walk him to the door--to get him out of the car, and hand him his keys.

"Now take me back to get my car!" Trev says.

"Not a chance. Call me when you get up in the morning, give me a call and I'll come get you." I said.

"Fuck that. Take me to get my fucking car right fucking now goddamn it."

"Trev, in the morning." I repeat. I'm drunk, tired and this conversation with a drunken gadfly is testing my patience like no other conversation before it. I turn to walk away.

Grabbing me by my arm and pulling me back Trev says, "Don't you walk away from me when I'm talking to you." Liquid courage at its finest. Trev is 5'9" 155 lbs with rocks in his pocket. I'm 6'2" and every bit of 215 pounds. I grit my teeth and remind myself that this is one of my best friends, and he is just drunk.

He jabs a finger in my face, "You take me to get my fucking car right now, dammit." Grinding my teeth,

"Trevor, let. go. of. my. fucking. arm." Realizing that he doesn't have his slingshot handy, he let's go. Sam pokes her head out of the car window

"Simon, let's go. Trev take your drunk ass to bed. Seriously!"

Trev looks in Sam's direction. Looks at me and says, "First thing in the morning, I'm calling and you get your ass down here to go get my car." It was painful for him to give in. That fact made me feel better. I nodded and walked away.

I climbed in the car and Randy says, "I thought you were going to kill him when he grabbed you."

"Trev? Nah." As if I never considered it.

"I'm calling bullshit." Sam muttered.

Randy

Randy called earlier than is polite this morning. The fat booty smacking video of Kevin is burning a whole in his brain.

"Hey, when're we gonna bust Kevin out?" He asked. I paused, checked the wall clock. Even the clock was unhappy. 7:20 AM. I lifted my coffee mug. Realized there wasn't anything in it, and slid it back on the counter. It groaned to a stop next to Mr. Coffee. Pavlovian. Phone calls at this time of day usually come with a free donut and a shitty cup of coffee. I go about brewing a pot of coffee.

"Work boring you to death," I asked. "Because Kevin banging a slumper can't be the most pressing thing in your life."

He laughed. "I haven't made it to work just yet. In fact, I'm just sitting in traffic and watched the video again for entertainment."

"Most people listen to talk radio."

"I'm not most people."

"Oh. And here I thought everyone video taped their friends banging slumpers."

"Do I sniff the foul stench of moral superiority," he laughed.

"Samantha calls it 'snark, or snarky.' You call it moral superiority. I call it, "don't call me at 7: 20 in the fucking morning expecting trite congeniality and a free continental breakfast."

There's a pause. The time just dawned on him. "My fault. I didn't realize the time."

"Girl or drugs," I asked, listening for the shower. "Or both." Randy is a punctuality freak. Claims it has something to do with a Chinese tradition. Anyway, there are only two things that take his mind off time. Booger sugar and a piece of ass.

He laughed. "You know me well, " he said. "Well the two are not mutually exclusive, you know."

"Found yourself a woman and some booger sugar in one night. It's going to be a banner summer," I scoffed.

"Yes, yes it is."

"Anyway, it's Friday. Happy Hour?" I hear the shower go off, and glance over my shoulder.

"Well, I mean, it's Friday." I said.

"So are we gonna ask Kevin about Faith today?" He asked. The bathroom door squeaks open. My name is Samantha and I don't approve this conversation.

"Alright we'll see you down there around 4." I hang up.

"Meeting the boys for Happy Hour?" Sam asks.

"Yep," I said.

Randy

Randy called earlier than is polite this morning. The fat booty smacking video of Kevin is burning a whole in his brain.

"Hey, when're we gonna bust Kevin out?" He asked. I paused, checked the wall clock. Even the clock was unhappy. 7:20 AM. I lifted my coffee mug. Realized there wasn't anything in it, save for a few grounds, and slid it back on the counter. It groaned to a stop next to Mr. Coffee.

"Work boring you to death," I asked. "Because Kevin banging a slumper can't be the most pressing thing in your life."

He laughed. "I haven't made it to work just yet. In fact, I'm just sitting in traffic and watched the video again for entertainment."

"Most people listen to talk radio."

"I'm not most people."

"Oh. And here I thought everyone video taped their friends banging slumpers."

"Do I sniff the foul stench of moral superiority," he laughed.

"Samantha calls it 'snark, or snarky.' You call it moral superiority. I call it, "don't call me at 7: 20 in the fucking morning expecting a smile and a free continental breakfast."

There's a pause. The time just dawned on him. "My fault. I didn't realize the time."

"Girl or drugs," I asked, listening for the shower. "Or both." Randy is a punctuality freak. Claims it has something to do with a Chinese tradition. Anyway, there are only two things that take his mind off time. Booger sugar and a piece of ass.

He laughed. "You know me well, " he said. "Well the two are not mutually exclusive, you know."

"Found yourself a woman and some booger sugar in one night. It's going to be a banner summer," I laughed.

"Yes, yes it is."

"Anyway, it's Friday. Happy Hour?" I hear the shower go off, and glance over my shoulder.

"Well, I mean, it's Friday." I said.

"So are we gonna ask Kevin about Faith today?" He asked. The bathroom door squeaks open. My name is Samantha and I don't approve this conversation.

"Alright we'll see you down there around 4." I hang up.

"Meeting the boys for Happy Hour?" Sam asks.

"Yep," I said.