[Ed.: I am not the only one who does *NOT* have insane drunken experiences. Reprinted from here. It seems to fit the category…]
Somebody tell me why:My car is in the front yard?I’m sleeping with my clothes on?
Came in through the window last night…
and I have a $190 bar tab in my pocket from a place called DEADBEATS!? Evidently, the place is named for its patrons, for I am the proud owner of 112 JELLO SHOTS… and yet.. there doesn’t seem to be any here on the bathroom floor where I still lay, half awake, three-quarters alive, completely alone, and still recovering from that drunken, debaucherous birthday three days prior.
ONE FUCKING HUNDRED AND FUCKING TWELVE FUCKING JELLO SHOTS!?!
Somebody tell me WHO the fuck would allow (encourage?) a manic-depressive, sick-and-twisted simpleton like me, jilted on my birthday and having just recently had the emotional, physical, and automotive shit kicked out of me by an ex buy Jello shots for (what I can only guess would be) the ENTIRE HOUSE THREE TIMES?!
Evidentally, it was my waitress, because I left her a $50 tip.
The bitch better have been damned good.