Ouch. That was smart.

So at some point last night gnomes sodomized my ears with jackhammers and bludgeoned me with very small baseball bats, while pouring sand into my eye sockets and convincing my cat it was a good idea to shit in my mouth.

Either that, or Daddy was in town and we went on a bender. One of those. So LA beats G-Vegas, as Joe answered while not only BadBlood but also the dueling Bobbsey Twins failed to pick up for a dial-a-shot. Alcanthang apparently couldn’t, since he missed the SoCo we were downing in his dishonor.

In a moment straight out of a John Grisham novel, we got BigPirate on the phone and he said “Man, I’m still at the office working on a filing. But I have a bottle of 18-year-old Glenlivet that somebody gave me as a fee. Lemme crack the seal on that bad boy.” This only happens with folks in NIT Title-town. In a moment of pure poetry, Daddy remarks “I like my scotch like I like my women. 18 years old and brown.” The wife then proceeded to crack up.

Never to be outdone, Maudie answered the siren call of our next dial-a-shot by taking a snort off a bottle of Cuervo she happens to keep by the computer for just those calls. No lime for hardcore gamboolers, Maudie likes ‘em stout. It all gets pretty fuzzy after that, but somewhere in there we did a dial-a-Sprite with Rini, I lost 5 consecutive games of pool to Daddy and my wife, we did another shot, this time with BG, I left numerous slurred voice mails for other bloggers, and sometime around shot #7 I decided it would be funny to call my niece, who’s in grad school getting her Master’s in Theology. She called me back, but couldn’t do a shot since she was on her way home from a bar. I knew I liked that kid. If we didn’t call, it’s because I don’t have your number. Hit me with it in email or if you’re really silly, in comments, and you’ll get included in the next round. If you have a missed call from a 704 area code this morning, that was us.

There was also some amazingly drunken typing on the girly chat thing, at which point I think I passed out, leaving myself open to gnome abuse. Little fuckers. Fortunately by that point I was too drunk to navigate the trackball, or poker could’ve ensued, which would have been bad. Then I woke up this morning and was sober about halfway through my drive to work. Mostly.

It all can be summed up by the one-word text message I got from the Donkeyfucker this morning. “Ugh.”