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  • Because little pitchers have big ears

    So I get a call from a friend from WayBack, a guy who I really thought was probably dead since nothing I knew could locate him, and we're yapping about the old times. Suddenly, I'm deluged with inquiries from The Boy. Among other things, he wants to know if I got arrested for "that."

    Me: "What is 'that'?"

    Him: "What you were just saying. You know, when you kidnapped somebody."

    The Voices in My Head: "Holy crap. I need to STFU."

    So I found myself explaining the situation, trying my best to edit for content on the fly and failing miserably. In the end, no matter how I tried, the story still stands as was: technically, if you really, really have to be pissy about it, I sort-of kidnapped my friend.

    But it was for his own good, dammit! The man was married to a stone-cold slab that made Martha Stewart look like a porn queen and he needed some fresh air, so to speak.

    All I can say about that now is that by the end of the night, Brian had a greater appreciation for bath tubs (esp. when full of ice, beer, and a half-naked beer girl), the American flag (esp. when worn as a string bikini by said half-naked beer girl), vodka jello shots (esp. when served by said beer girls whilst on your knees), and his way-cool friends who thought enough of him to yank him out of a mall parking lot (whilst wearing pantyhose masks and not even really stopping the van, no less) and force him to dance and drink the night away at their expense.

    Oh, and Brian, sorry for leaving you behind. You wouldn't leave with me, and I felt you were probably drunk enough that either 'it' wouldn't work or you wouldn't remember if 'it' did. Forgiven?

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