Bitch-ass drunk night

I needed some beer at about four pm on Friday.

My car has been in the shop since Tuesday. I despise cars, because they break. Normally when something goes wrong on my car I ignore it and hope that the car finds some way of resolving the issue itself. I do attach a measure of sentience to cars in that way. This means that I have, on occasion, driven 80 mph on interstates with four nearly flat tires.

Last week my car fell apart faster than Britney Spears. Mounting bills and a tough, annoying work week had me craving a cocktail at four pm.

Luckily, work obliged.

On Fridays at four, the coolest of my colleagues and I typically pool some money together and get a few six packs. We sit in the dark in the conference room for an hour, twirling bottle caps in the soft glow of a requisitioned purple lava lamp, and kvetch.

Three beers later, it was five pm.

Friend Brian called saying he was at The Eagle, the local leather bar, for three-for-ones.

Yes, three-for-ones. The Eagle is about a block and a half from my work. I used to go there a lot for lunch; at one point they had good Reubens. And they'd play soap operas on the t.v. for the regular alcoholic daddies.

Their Friday nights have become something of an institution.

Brian had been drinking with his co-workers since two pm so he was just rounding out his night, quite early, but there you go.

I love the leatherfolk. I used to get tons of free drinks at The Eagle until
Friend Tom broke my cover by alerting everyone that I wasn't actually into leather daddies.

By six-thirty I was wasted, running up to strangers and shouting, "Oh hi! You look like my therapist!" and asking the coat check guy if he was manning the kissing booth.

It was what I needed, of course. But by eight pm Friend Brian and I were sitting on my couch, sipping more beer and inhaling patty melts from next door while watching episodes of Dog the Bounty Hunter, which, due to his recent racist tirade, I can only consume while loaded.

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