Run Me Through...One Last Time

Elliot wrote something the other day that gets funnier and funnier each time it crosses my mind.

Remarking on the death of Hunter S. Thompson and his wish to be cremated and his ashes shot out of a cannon, our intrepid white guy reveals his last request:

"... when I die, ... cremate me, mix my ashes up in a douche bag and, run me through that one last time. Hell no, I'm not joking."

And neither am I. I've been giggling over that for 3 days.

I'm Too Old For This Shit

I honestly never thought I would utter those words but I did. And I meant them.

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain was descending in torrents in downtown Houston, where a few of us had gathered to celebrate a friend's birthday. We went to Slainte Irish Pub where the beer flowed like wine. I don't like beer so I had a long island iced tea which sucked. Our dear friend became completely inebriated as the night wore on. After making a half-hearted pass or two at me and lewdly and rapidly rubbing his pool cue in my general direction, he passed out. He was sitting almost straight up, pants unbuttoned.

I was talking with a few other guys when we saw Drunken Birthday Boy give a slight heave. It wasn't an eruption, more of a steady trickle. Unfortunately, it landed all over Jethro's leather jacket and our umbrella. I paid him back though. Most of the patrons (when directed by me to observe the situation), thought it was pretty funny and made for their camera phones. The manager, failing to realize the lucrative potential in Drunken Birthday Boy having vomited all over himself (i.e. propping him up outside and selling photo opportunities), gave us the boot (which we had given ourselves already, I might add).

We hauled him through the establishment and sat him down at one of the tables outside, which was only partially sheltered from the rain, while we waited for someone to take him home. He began making spasmodic jerks again and we dunked his head in the outdoor trashcan just to be on the safe side. Further photo opportunities ensued. I called over the waitress he had a huge crush on and got her to pose with him. The bouncers loved it, so hopefully we're not permanently banned.

Moral of this story: Do not pass out in my presence. I will fuck you up.

I'm not an entirely bad person though. I did help him to his car, taking the vomit encrusted side because none of the brave lads I was with would do it. The were content to drag him through the rain puddles by his legs. I figure I've dealt with enough puke that I don't have to be a pussy about it. But it wasn't pleasant.