Take last Friday night for example.

The dive was swaying to some old Merle Haggard from the juke box. My friend and I were swaying to the beat of a fifth of something his cousin brewed, probably in a bathtub. Less than thirty people in the joint, and we were sizing up the cutest three.

I’d had better moments, philosophically speaking.

“I figure,” my buddy slurred, “ahem, I figure I’ve got even odds with the brunette, so you can go fer the blond. It’s possible, I tell ya, definitely possible. Thing is, I don’t think we’re walking out of here with tail that fine without doing…” He paused, being a tad on the dramatic side when drunk, “…some bad, bad things.”

“Son,” I shot back as fast as eighty proof would let me, “I was made to do bad things.” Apparently, whereas my friend is dramatic, I am rather cocky when under the influence. We all have our demons what like to be let loose in the haze of drink. Mine were out, in control, and ready to cry havok….or whatever else it took to get in them britches.