There it was. Morning. The Khan to this Drunken Poet's Jim Kirk. Sleeping in a basement, head pounding as though a herd of rhino's was using my brain for a siesta. Memories of the previous night of insanity start flooding back in an unending torrent of continual laughter. I cough. Too many cigarettes the night before. Oh Crap, I agreed to give Spyboy's friend Rockgirl a ride to Montreal. Check the clock. Was supposed to pick her up in 20 minutes. The rest of the crew is still comatose. Not going to happen. Emergency text. She was already planning on waiting for us knowing what the Market can do on the unsuspecting. Great Girl.
English walks out of his bedroom. "Did we almost get a fight last night?". More laughter. Manage to get the troops out of bed, packed, and shower while they're getting going. Wish the rest of them had. Manhole packs for the trip: a Toothbrush and a pair of socks, no change of clothes. Dude is a legend.
Pick Rockgirl up an hour late. Not too bad, all told. Car reeks of booze seeping from our pores. Poor Girl. Car trip is one of the ages, listening to crazy English music off Matt's Ipod. Manage to make it to Montreal. I fail at navigation, went to the wrong hotel. Somehow, we manage to not drive Rockgirl away from us entirely, agree to meet up later in the evening.
Well, I'm technically a Quarter Irish. Thus, if you're female and marginally attractive, you now have a standing invitation to Kiss Me. Moving beyond that, it's a beautiful day here in the Tri Cities, to celebrate the Feast Day... who am I kidding? It's an excuse to get hammered all day long, act like complete idiots and just claim to be celebrating... In Short, perhaps my favourite day of the year.
Regardless, as much as I love the drunken debauchery, the missing memories, and the ability to claim that something didn't happen just because "you can't remember it", doesn't mean that's what this post is about.
Today, I pass on a nugget of gold, as was shown to me by The Chud. Chat Roulette is a terrifying thing, that can so easily put the most perverted of people in touch with the most innocent, or even scarier a prospect: perverts being put together. But it also allows for some comedic gold, and as such, I share with you, the best use of Chat Roulette I have seen to date.
Why I call myself the drunken poet is unknown to me. I wrote this of myself in a farewell scrapbook for a friend in University. Now I write it here, as I am merely a man, spinning words of wisdom and or insanity, depending on your point of view; and I will not guarantee that these are always the words of a sober man.
