H.G.T.

I’m sitting at home. I just had the funnest day!

Actaully, it was pretty fun, but it messed up my life plans.

I was supposed to be in a 40k tournament at this very moment. I am not. This is because I have only been up since about 2 pm. (it’s 2.17 at the moent)

Not those of you at fleener’s store may be saying, “that’s impossible, that fat fuck called at 9:30 to say he wasn’t going to make it to the tourneamnet.”

Well, fuck you, don’t call me fat. Strike that – call me whatever you feel like. Fuck it. No one could make me feel (or look) worse the Dirty Vicar did when he posted the least complementary photo of me ever. It’s as though he used the scientific method to find an angle to take a photo from that would make me look like the hydrogen inside me could go at any time and thus end the age of airships.

Any way, back to my fun night. A friend of mine made a split with his (now former) lady friend. SO we went looking for liquid pain. We found it. My pal had a 3/4s of a case of beer and I had half a bottle of gin (krootboy – that tonic you left over here is almose gone. Please buy me some more : ) topped off with the other 1/4 of a case of beer. We were, at the time, high in the hills on a campsite.  In the company of friends. Friends with cluttered cars. From which cars we began to throw things into the fire. Things like metal cans of PVC glue. Canned food. Lighter fluid. Etc. We were also busier then beavers chopping up firewood with an ax. In short, fire+large blades+Booze = trouble. But, no one is cut. No one is all blowed up. We muddled through. The drunken escapade alone would not have kept me from farting hot miniature death on my opponent’s armies. No, what did that was the coming home to find a fight with a lady friend waiting for me.

It really was my fault. She just wanted a little sympathy, and maybe some affection, you know? But me, I’m drunk. Real drunk (I am actually still slightly drunk. I am not looking forward to my dinner hangover)

So I jumped right in her shit, fucked up nicely, and proceeded to drain every other drop to drink in my house (excepting of course, three bush lites that have been in my firdge for several months – I’d sooner get in the lighter fluid.)

So I’m going all hemingway, and I realize that I’m out of booze. at eight in the morning. So. I spend an hour looking for my telephone (it was in the storage area under my bathroom sink) and call the store to tell them I won’t make it. I then drop like a box of rocks.

At about 1.45 I woke up. I drank sixty four ounces of gatorade, had a large ribeye, red-purple rare, and pirated most of the metallica catalouge out of spite (James, lars, that’s a joke – if you’re reading.  Which I know you are.).

I don’t like to drink. The same way quigley didn’t like pistols.