Clean sheets mean a lot… To a guy who sleeps on the floor.
I mean, I was on vacation. Sorta… Mostly I was just laying under a tree for the last two days shooting at beer cans and helping rid the world of the horror known as orange Oly;
I've told the story before, but I will again. Several years ago I was brought to Portland to emcee a party at the PDW warehouse. At some point as I was barking my particular flavor of whatevers into the bullhorn at the assembled crowd, somebody sensed that I may have been feeling a bit parched, so being the kind soul whoever that was is, they dropped a chilled six pack of Oly cans at my feet, which over the course of the evening, I drank without pause. Not knowing that the formula inside had changed however, and along with a handful of other libations, my physical response was one of dizziness, nausea, and general white girl wastedness. At the event’s conclusion, a group of us made our way downtown, during which time I crashed no fewer than five times. Finally, we arrived at a historic peeler bar, and went inside. As soon as we sat down, a lovely individual in the bar’s employ came to take my hand and lead me away to a darkened corner, where she proceeded to earn the $30.00 one of my spirited compatriots had paid her upon our arrival, the hard way. I recall putting my hands on my head, and I believe, momentarily falling asleep. The song ended, as did her admirable efforts at maintaining my attention, and I returned to the table where we continued with our debaucherous ways. It wasn’t until the next morning when I saw my leg and to my horror, realized I most likely bled on my hapless hostess the evening before. I take responsibility for my actions, and if I could apologize to the woman a thousand times, I would. Just the same, had I been drinking regular Oly, and not the horrible orange canned malt liquor toxicity, I doubt that any of my shame would have occurred. In short, fuck you orange Oly.
It feels so good to do so much for my fellow man.
This guy originally looked like this;