Shooter

I am always hesitant to write on topical subjects. A political gaffe, celebrity snaffu, sporty sports thing, all of these seem rather temporal. To me such subjects are in direct conflict with the inherent endurance of the written word, and far be it from me to betray its will. Until recently the subject of mass shootings would be lumped with the aforementioned topics. Tragic and troubling yes, but not something that happens with great frequency. Unfortunately one cannot go more than two weeks without reading about a disgruntled psychopath taking a gun and indiscriminately killing innocents. Such violence has become endemic of the Western world, America in particular. I can think of no better allegory for the moral decay of our society and desensitization of the individual than a mass shooting.

By now we all know the drill. Someone with severe mental illness who clearly had no business owning a gun takes to the streets, crazed manifesto left behind more so out of obligation than desire to be understood. I mean, c'mon, have you ever read one of those things? These dudes don't even proofread their shit. Bang bang, X amount of people dead, community in mourning, President sends condolences in between holes 11 and 12, yadda yadda. After offing themselves or getting gunned down by cops having their most fun in years, the locals are left only a few brief moments of quiet, organic grieving. Once the initial tragedy is over a more protracted and artificial one rises from its ashes like the lamest fucking phoenix you have ever seen.

Camera crews from across the nation pour into whatever sleepy town is still reeling from having members of their community slaughtered. National pundits summon hours of looking-somber practice as they look somber, a grieving parent pleads for stricter gun controls, a cartoonishly conservative NRA representative demands looser gun controls, Wolf Blitzer watches over it all with the glazed eyes of one who has seen much suffering. Or one who works at CNN.

What is it about mass shooters that makes network news eat up every case like a fat kid eating... like, way too much food and stuff? (I don't know what it is recently but I can't make fat people analogies to save my life. Swear to god I used to knock that shit out of the park.) It can't just be the death toll, since the average network news ticker will casually sneak in the 900 brown people from Brownpeopleiztan killed in a tsunami in between news of a stupid cute puppy doing something stupid cute and Selena Gomez farting. Natural disasters do not illicit the type of tragedy-induced-news-watching the media loves to pump out, and neither do acts of terrorism in countries not America. An American mass shooting strikes all the perfect chords needed to sing a song of sorrow. Not too far away to seem irrelevant, not too close to seem urgent. Not too fast to seem accidental, not too protracted to seem institutional. 

As mentioned earlier, usually just after the tragedy has occurred a tearful parent or significant other or life coach will plead, demand for tighter restrictions on gun laws so as to avert further loss of life. One must question the sincerity of these people. So you didn't give two shits about gun rights until your child/spouse/life coach was killed? That's like those people who have a relative who falls ill to some rare disease and then start a charity or raise awareness to find a cure for said rare disease. They don't really want a cure, they just want a cure for their relative. While I agree that there should be some tightening on who is allowed to carry around something that only exists to end one's existence, the problem of mass shooters is ultimately one of communication. A mass shooter usually suffers from mental illness or is just a raging asshole, both problems that can be dealt with sans bloodshed with proper communication. The responsibility for said communication falls on the media, community, family, and individual in that order. 

On the opposite end of the spectrum you have the boorishly tasteless, hopelessly delusional crusaders who feel now would be a good time to remind people that guns are, like, totally radical. Totes rad, brah. When these characters start crawling out of whatever ass backwards red state where QUEERS CAN'T GET NO MARRIED CUZ JESUS they come from I start playing a drinking game. Every time one of them says "second amendment," "freedom," or "Obama taking away our rights," take a shot. So far I've only died of alcohol poisoning twice. If they wish to believe guns do a good job of protecting people, fine, believe all you want. Ignoring the fact that only a very small percentage of gun related homicides are in self defense, guns are not really the issue. People are the issue. Move the people pendulum, not the firearm pendulum.

Both sides, caricatured liberals and caricatured conservatives, are so embarrassingly dense it saddens me. I do not mean that metaphorically either; I'm legit bummed that human beings can become so entrenched in their stupidity, in their madness, that crazy becomes the norm. Speaking solely in hyperbole becomes an acceptable form of conversation. Indignation an acceptable reaction to disagreement. These are the people who bumper stickers were made for. No one likes bumper stickers.

Any loss of life is tragic, but the deepest mourning should be reserved for those closest to the victims. It is not something for a nation to observe, to analyze. We are talking about the loss of human life, not what some smug dipshit said on Twitter to another smug dipshit. Although, can you believe the nerve of Smug Dipshit A? I can't wait to read Yahoo's news report on Smug Dipshit B's counter barb. Enthralling. Why does one's suffering need to be broadcast by news networks? That's not news, that's private. Back the fuck off CNN and Fox News (MSNBC is usually just playing with finger paint and eating glue in a corner), peace is much easier to achieve without 20 cameras in one's face. The dead should not serve as fodder for national news networks. 

I'm not one who believes tragedies happen so we can learn from them, but I believe tragedies will happen again if we do not learn from them. The predictable national discourse does not exactly instill confidence on our ability to learn from mistakes, but I have not given up on humanity just yet. Faith shaken, hope endures.

Advice

A good way to extend the shelf life of fruits and vegetables is to buy whiskey instead.  

Running low on writing paper? Grab two sheets of paper then fold each from the top right corner to bottom left corner. Fold top left corner to bottom right corner. Fold from left to right. Fold top to bottom. Holding the center pull each corner up, then place one sheet over the other. You now either have a paper hat or two awkwardly folded pieces of paper.
 

Never trust a big butt and a smile. Poison! Poison! P-p-p-poison!

To help remember someone's name when first meeting them shake their hand firmly, look them in the eye, and kiss them. You never forget your first kiss.

If you are down in the dumps after breaking up with a significant other ride more public transportation during high traffic times. You'll get more than enough inappropriate physical contact and uncomfortable smelling of fellow patrons to last you a week.

Always bet on black people.
 

Do not take candy from strangers, as they are probably pedophiles. Honestly anyone offering you candy on a day that isn't Halloween is probably a pedophile.

Zoning out of conversations can be a useful tactic to retain some semblance of sanity if you work in an office, have shitty friends, or know someone named Peggy. Oh, really Peggy, the dog food you normally get at Tractor Supply moved to a different aisle? That's crazy! Madness! Please talk about that and only that for fucking 10 minutes even though you clearly see I am trying to politely end the conversation and be about my business.

Considering becoming a magician? Haha! You're hysterical as always!
 

Contemplating suicide but don't want to leave a mess after blowing your brains out with a shotgun? Try shooting yourself inside your tub with the shower curtain pulled back. Leaving cleaning supplies next to your soon-to-be rotting corpse is a thoughtful and appreciated gesture for whoever finds you first.
 

Standing on chairs during office meetings will confer an image of power and assertiveness that your co-workers will respect.

Don't pee on people! It's considered rude most of the time!

There is a difference between maintaining polite eye contact during conversation and creepy creep eye contact for creeps. Ignore this difference. Concentrate on the eyes. Look at them. Make a mental note of every time their eyes nervously glance away from yours. What are they hiding? What do they know? Maintain eye contact. Perhaps they know? Know what you did? No! How could they! That would be impossible. Continue to stare into their eyes. Into their being. Until it burns. Does it burn? DOES IT BURN?

Aim for the stars but remember, most of them are really far away!

Having guests over but not looking forward to the clean up afterwards? Give each guest a trash fanny pack to wear during the party. This trick will virtually eliminate garbage from piling up around your poorly decorated living room and they look oh so stylish too!

Don't use hashtags ever, because you're not an asshole.



Sports

[The Cleveland Noble Savages have just defeated the Jackson City Quadroons 116-110 in game 1 of the Offensive Team Name Basketball League (OTNBL) championship series. "No Shoes" Jackson, DeQwondarius the Magnificent, and Coach McCoacherson have taken their respective seats for questions. The following is the transcript from the Quadroon's post-game press conference]

No Shoes Jackson: Before we start this press conference I'd like to thank God for giving us the strength to go out and compete today. When I first prayed to Him I believe He told me He was on His way to Syria to blow up a school bus full of children, so for Him to take two hours out of His busy schedule for this literally meaningless game of basketball means a lot to us. I'd also like to give thanks to Chaac, the Mayan god of rain and water. We sacrificed a virgin for him before the game, but judging by the outcome I think we should have sacrificed two virgins. Now, questions? Yes, pale white man.

Reporter 1: No Shoes, it appears that you guys lost today because you scored less points than the Noble Savages. Going forward, have you guys considered scoring more points than the Noble Savages?

NSJ: Well that's definitely something that's on the table. Right now we're reviewing all our options, and even reviewing other people's options. But we won't be abandoning our identity; scoring less points than the other team has worked well for us in the past so I don't think we're going to remove that element completely.

Reporter 2: DeQwondarius the Magnificent there have been many troubling reports that you are using douchebag enhancing substances. Reports claim that you are exclusively wearing medium size shirts even though you are 6'8" and that you are using cheap cologne as air freshener. Sources also claim that you are considering getting a tribal tattoo. Is there any cause for concern?

DeQwondarius the Magnificent: Nah, kid, nah. Have I made mistakes in the past? Possibly. Will I make mistakes in the future? Definitely. Am I lacking in tact and sound judgment? Maybe. Did I answer your question? Probably. Do I thnk tribal tattoos are dope as fuck? Absolutely. Do I have any shame about using a term as dated as "dope as fuck?" Nah, kid, nah.

Reporter 2: What does that even mean?

DQM: It means next question.

Reporter 3: Hi, Garfield Marmaduke with Fictitious Sports Weekly.

DQM: No one cares who you are.

Reporter 3: Yes sir, sorry sir. Your Magnificence if I may?

DQM: You may.

Reporter 3: Remember that one play where you, like, grabbed the ball and you were, like, going left then you did this really cool spin move and you were going right and then you jumped up, like, really high and then that dude was coming at you but you were all, like, "rarrgh!!" and, like, dunked? And then everyone was all, like, "ooohhh shit damn!" Remember that?

DQM: It's hard to say for certain. LSD has pretty much destroyed my ability to form new memories and retain information.

Reporter 3: Oh. Ok, well, uh, it was super cool. Thanks for dunking and stuff.

Coach McCoacherson: Any questions for me?

Reporter 1: SIT THE FUCK BACK DOWN.

Reporter 4: This question is for No Shoes Jackson. No Shoes, will you ever wear shoes during a basketball game?

NSJ: No.

Reporter 2: A tangentially related question: is there any truth to the rumors that you will be traded to the Broadway run of Cats once the season is over?

NSJ: While I believe Cats is the most purr-fect show on Broadway I'd rather focus on winning this series before talking about any trades. Meow.

Reporter 1: DeQwondarius there has been-

 

DQM: DeQwondarius the Magnificent.

 

Reporter 1: I'm sorry?

 

DQM: It's DeQwondarius the Magnificent. You need to say the whole thing. Your Magnificence is also acceptable.

 

Reporter 1: DeQwondarius the Magnificent there has been some talk of the aggressive play both teams are known for and how this might be bad for the league. In the first quarter you were given a technical for stabbing Cleveland's Derrick Mulroney to death. Is this the type of aggressive play we can expect for the rest of the series?

 

DQM: Well, I'm a competitor. When I go out there I do anything and everything I can to make sure we win. Sometimes that means to crash the boards, sometimes that means to use a sharpened toothbrush to kill another human being. If it means a W then I will gladly murder every single one of those guys. Hell, I might even murder some of my own teammates.

 

Reporter 3: Is that why Coach McCoacherson is currently bleeding, Your Magnificence?

 

Coach: That's... that's my blood... everywhere...

 

NSJ: Y'know let's not get into who stabbed who, ok? The fact is that every team could use a DeQwondarius when they-

 

DQM: DeQwondarius the Magnificent.

 

NSJ: Apologies, Your Magnificence. Every team could use a DeQwondarius the Magnificent when they step onto the court. When you're playing for a national championship every cartoonishly unhinged lunatic in your locker room brings you one step closer to victory. Now if you'll excuse us we need to get Coach to a hospital.

 

Coach: I'm so... so cold...

Gyms

"Can I get a spot, bro?" asks the man curling in the squat rack.

I'm assuming he recently survived a rather harrowing attack from an escaped gorilla, as that is the only logical explanation for his shirt to be missing so much fabric that I feel like a liar for calling it a shirt. No one needs to see the entirety of your back and both nipples, dude. Malnourished Thai children didn't masterfully craft your clever shirt (Jewbacca? Oh I get it, because it's a Wookie with a yarmulke and nerd things are funny and this country has gone to shit) just so you could turn it into a toga starter kit.

"BRO! GODDAMN SPOT, BRO!" Curling in the squat rack is akin to pooping in a water fountain; aside from missing the original function entirely it is utterly contemptible, vile, disgusting, and lacking in consideration for one's fellow man. Plus he was only curling 70 lbs like a little bitch boy.

"You will not hurt anyone ever again." I say as I grab him by his collar, kick him in the chest a la Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in Game of Death, and stand heroically. A vaguely eastern European woman, head scarfed with breadbasket in hand, comes up to me.

"Thank you save us. You are like hero."

"It was nothing, Olga. I'm just a man looking to lift heavy weights."

"May god protect forever you." She kisses my hand and departs.

Having vanquished Chad (He looked like a Chad. Is that a racist statement? I dunno, I'm kind of on the fence about that.) from the squat rack I begin my workout in earnest. Squats are squatted. Grunts are grunted. Sweats are sweated. After completing a particularly grueling set of squats I rest on the squat rack itself, a valiant knight basking in the glory of slaying dragons. A troop of small men with smaller necks approach. I first believe them to be peasants from Olga's rival village, most likely bringing peace offerings or shamanic blessings to curry my favor. Villagers give me shit, like, all the time. It's super cute.

"Excuse me, how much longer do you have?" asks the largest of the small men.

"Until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, until the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before."

"What?"

"Five minutes."

Ten minutes later I leave for the pull up station and once there, I see her. Short brown hair glides over her sweet face, sweat beads down her soft white skin, Vibram Five Fingers adorn her yuppie feet. A CrossFit Aphrodite, she performs a set of 15 perfect form pull ups with the ease and grace of something that is really good at doing a lot of pull ups. I know only a handful of unassailable facts, irrefutable truths in this world; Obama was born in Nigeria, 9/11 was an inside job, the Holocaust was exaggerated. And I know that this woman must be mine. Summoning decades of torrid sexual conquest and training I approach her. I've learned in these situations it is best to speak sincerely rather than rely on convoluted pick up lines.

"Miss?"

She removes her headphones.

"I want to be inside you."

She puts her headphones back on.

Knowing that I have successfully planted a seed of lust I do not pursue her further. I complete my set of pull ups without incidence. Had their been incidence, I would have wrote about it. You're just going to have to trust me here. I have only one more exercise left in my routine, and make my way to the opposite side of the gym. As I near my goal I see a young man performing dumbbell military press. The weight appears to be a bit much for him, however, as I see his elbows slowly buckle. In a few brief seconds he may very well lose his fight with gravity. I could tell that without immediate intervention he was about to drop the weight on his head.

"You're about to drop the weight on your head," I said as he dropped the weight on his head. Proud of myself for accurately providing commentary for an in-progress tragedy I step over the now bleeding man and head towards the bench area.

If the squat rack is the Chapel of the Ascension, the dumbbell rack is Mount Sinai, and the Smith machine is, of course, a K-Mart in South Dakota then it follows that the bench area is Mecca. This most holy of sites is the culmination of any true bro's weight lifting pilgrimage, bro. After briefly becoming enthralled with my own reflection (I often wonder why every gym insists on having so many mirrors; it lends a funhouse-for-people-with-5%-bodyfat-and-low-self-esteem vibe) I refocus and load 405 onto the bar. Such a weight should not to be taken lightly, as it is fairly heavy. I approach the weight heavily, resting my hands on the bar. Whispering sweet nothings into the ever receptive ears of each individual plate, I promise I will be firm but gentle.

"I will love you forever. Don't ever leave me," I caress the weight, "or you'll be sorry. I swear to god you try to leave and I will fucking end you." Having proclaimed my unconditional love for the weight I slide onto the bench, but manly. All my mental preparation, all my training, has lead me to this singular moment along the space-time continuum. Muscles tensed, breath heavy, blood boiling. As I move the bar from the rack to directly over my chest I let out a guttural cry, a declaration that I am no slave to gravity. A declaration that had the apple hit me in the head I would have chucked that shit right back. I hear nothing of my fellow gym patrons, as they no longer exist. My focus has given way to bloodlust, and I allow it to wash over me, consume me. The weight is now on my chest, 405 pounds of iron resting, waiting, needing to be freed of the surly bonds of earth. I lift, and am free.
 

Gym

Rock Lobster awakens me from my slumber. It is 6 AM, or 0600 if you're an asshole. I briefly contemplate hitting the snooze, then less briefly wonder who invented the snooze button in the first place. I mean the point of an alarm is to wake you up, right? Well why would you add something that prevents an alarm from doing the only fucking thing it was created to do? That's like if every gun had one of those slapsticky BANG flags pop out before actually firing. I digress, for temporal assistance devices are not my concern at the moment; today is a weight training day, thus today is good.

 

It is now 6:30 AM, as the snooze button is an alluring temptress. I go through my regular pre-workout routine of eating waffles and crying in the shower for 10 minutes then depart for the gym. On my way I go over my lifting routine in my head. Visualizing each exercise, each rep, each awkward shuffle around a bunch of inappropriately dressed Middle Easterners (jeans and polos, c'mon dude) standing directly in front of the water fountain, all to prepare my mind for the onslaught I will subject my totes shredded muscles to. I then go over the virtue of modesty, and if I even need it. Continuing, I review what little I know of prepositions, and whether or not it's okay to end sentences with them. Finally, I conclude that I do not know how to think sentences in my head make nice pretty.

  

"Good morning! How are you doing today?" the swipe card lady asks.

"Lift heavy things," I reply. Visibly aroused by my laser-like focus she quickly hands me back my card and averts further eye contact.

"Fucking creep," she says, a ploy cover for her baser carnal desires. Such is the burden of a bro as jacked as I am, bro. Constant female attention at the most inopportune of times.

Steeling my nerve I walk past a plethora of cardio machines towards the weight room proper. Ellipticals, cardio bikes, treadmills, flunnels, sneedles, jibboos, gluppity-glupps, and other whimsical machines invented by Dr. Seuss take up a good majority of available gym floor. Every last one of them useless, every last one of them an affront to god. Many of my fellow gym patrons, these masters of time and money management, decided to get in their respective car, drive 10+ minutes to a gym and pay some douchetool wearing a shirt he bought from Baby GAP $30/month so they can walk. And we wonder how China is beating us in the arms (guns [biceps]) race. That's like bringing food to Chipotle and paying to cook there. If you just want to walk fucking go outside! Get some fresh air! But please, I implore you, do not waste precious gym space that could be used for literally anything else so you can leisurely stroll whilst digesting the latest episode of whatever drivel VH1 is shoving down the country's mouth this month.

Leaving the cardio machines behind I enter the locker room and run into an old friend. "Greetings, Old Naked Man."

"Greetings, Dominic. Shall I bend over in front of your face now or wait until you are tying your shoes?"

"No need today, Old Naked Man, I'm just here to use the weight scale."

"Ah, very well then. I'll just stand awkwardly near the exit so random passers-by may be subject to the abject horror that is my genitalia."

"Charming as always, Old Naked Man. I bid you good day."

I stow my things into the nearest locker and make my way towards the squat racks. What I see there shocks me, disappoints me, saddens me. And I know I'm the only man who can stop it from ever happening again.

WHAT DID OUR HERO SEE? WILL HE SURVIVE HIS LATEST GYM SESSION? WHERE WILL HIS ADVENTURES TAKE HIM NEXT? TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR THE CONCLUSION TO DOMINIC COATS AND THE TEMPLE OF DUDEBROS!! SAME COATS TIME, SAME COATS CHANNEL!!

Riddles

Two trains leave Central Station heading in opposite directions. Train A leaves at 12 PM going south at 70 mph. Train B leaves at 1 PM going north at 80 mph. Train A's destination is 300 miles away. Train B's destination is 200 miles away. What will the distance between the two trains be before Train A's conductor realizes that his wife is having an affair with Train B's conductor?

Four co-workers (Bill, Betty, Barry, and Xanderpuss McWendy's) in the woods have just escaped from a violent battle royale between teenagers that was being held in the same area their Team Building Seminar was scheduled. They come to a river that has a small boat on the bank. Only two can cross at a time, one must be left on the opposite shore while the other pilots the boat back to the other co-workers. Bill, who is bleeding profusely from his stomach after a katana wielding preteen stabbed him, cannot be left alone on either shore. Betty cannot be left alone on either shore with Xanderpuss McWendy's because Xanderpuss has a cleft lip and Betty is all "eww, that's nasty." Barry cannot operate the boat because "who am I, fucking Poseidon? Tell Xanderpuss to do it, that little shit has been dragging ass since we killed those kids with Uzis." Xanderpuss is Xanderpuss. How do you get the four across without anyone dying?

 

You receive a coupon in the mail for Red Lobster. Your car has exploded majestically so you must walk. After walking some time you come to a fork in the road where two men are standing. You're like "well shit, this looks sketch" but you approach them anyways. A sign next to the man on the left says TRUTH TELLER. A sign next to the man on the right says DON'T BELIEVE THE LIBERAL MEDIA. You ask the men which is the way to Red Lobster. The man on the left says "The left road." The man on the right says "IMPEACH OBAMA!!" Which road do you take?

There are 100 marbles in a bag. 50 are yellow marbles and 50 are black marbles. I tell you to grab 50 marbles total from the bag, 25 yellow and 25 African-American. After that I mix the 25 yellow and 25 negro marbles together in a separate bag. Now I tell you to leave the yellow marbles in the bag and only grab the colored marbles. How do you do it? HINT: Affirmative Action is allowed.

Sammy, Sara, Steve, Saul and Stephanie are eating dinner at your place. Sammy cannot sit next to Steve because Steve murdered his dog on a whim last winter. Sara cannot sit next to Saul or Stephanie because they both incessantly invite her to their swingers club. Saul cannot sit next to Sammy because Saul is a vampire and Sammy is a descendant of Abraham Van Helsing. Stephanie cannot sit next to Steve because Steve murdered her dog on a whim last spring (Steve acknowledges he has a problem and is seeing a therapist). What is the optimal seating arrangement for your guests?

 

Drinks

I have always found bars peculiar establishments. Watering holes sans sustenance, where one can drift slowly (or quickly if Everclear is involved) into euphoric inebriation. To get "so fucking wasted, bro," as it were. I am often invited out for a drink with friends or co-workers, and often I decline. Every now and again I will relent and throw them a bone (or boner, if you know what I mean [I apologize for the last joke, I have a court order to reference my erection at least once a day {I have a terrible lawyer, btw}]) and go out, but I always have an internal discussion over how I am making a terrible mistake. 

Drink? For what purpose? To simply be drunk? Aside from the fact I despise being drunk, becoming drunk is a solitary endeavor. Last I checked vodka doesn't provide a contact high. No need to surround myself with strange strangers yelling over a shitty Coheed & Cambria song about that one time they got so fucking wasted, bro.

Drink with friends? Then why go out to a bar? Just drink in whatever fixer-upper trash heap doubles as your humble abode and avoid the minor claustrophobia and missing phones custom to the pub/bar/dive experience.

Meet new people? Not to paint the entirety of the drinking population in one self-righteous brush but I'LL GO AHEAD AND DO JUST THAT: the typical bar patron lacks creativity, empathy, and the all important hmm-my-tattoos-are-looking-kinda-fucking-stupid-guess-I-should-stop-while-I'm-ahead sense. Those who regularly frequent bars are not my cup of tea as people go, since they are drinking alcohol, not tea.

The very idea of bars is akin to fast food playpens; a relatively safe environment for one to interact with strangers, gorge oneself on various pro-heart attack hors d'oeuvres, cry randomly, bleed mysteriously, and make bad decisions. Pinatas too. Sometimes there are pinatas.

And yet! There, near the garishly decorated pool table! Do you see the man blissfully unaware that that is actually not a dance conga but merely a line to the bathroom? The women's bathroom, no less. Do you see the man gurgling the lyrics to four separate songs that he Macgyvered into one mega-song? Do you see the man laughing at everything and nothing simultaneously? There stands the happy drunk (who is well past "so fucking wasted, bro," bro) to drown my cynicism with a parade of 50 cent wells. I once believed the phrase a misnomer. Happy drunk. Isn't one of the benefits of inebriation lowered inhibition and, conversely, lowered emotional connectedness? Wouldn't one be more numb than blithe?

Then I considered the thought of being connected, even if only tangentially, to others disconnected was enough to warrant a smile. A laugh towards the heavens. To enjoy the nether of the moment, chest bump nonexistence. That aside from the positive societal connotations a drink with friends has represented for centuries there is something more to drinking, more to dancing on tables like an asshole, that one can transcend the quiet pleasure of nursing one's last drink past simple inebriation and onto nirvana. Temporarily know the feeling of congruence between the universe and the self.

So I look at the puke-stained man carried out by friends as one who has captured a part of the essence of being. A scotch sophist, a bourbon Buddha.  Balance unsteady, world aligned.