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8/29/2003

Do I dare it? A drunk blog?
Kyle took his socks off today and asked me to look at the tan lines on his feet. Here were my responses:
-Holy fuck, did Mom fuck a sasquatch?
-What the hell? Did God slap on some fallen trunks to the ends of your legs?
- A family of 3 could feed for a year off of one of those goddamned things!
- Are those fuckers registered?
These feet are too huge. Imagine a clown with huge red clown shoes. Stop! Now take away the shoes and there are my brothers feet. It's like watching evolution forgotten. "We will create a race of men with huge feet and they will ... what? An Adam's Apple? Yeah, that sounds kind of interesting. Let's go with that."
So, I've spent the night sipping Labatt Blue and calling people in Columbia I haven't talked to since I've left. Actually, it's mostly been people I forgot to tell I was leaving. So, most of my night has gone like this ...
B: Hello, someone I once knew
Columbia People: B-Man! Holy shit! I'm so drunk right now, where are you? Are you still in Seattle?
B: Yep. I think I'll be here for a while. Things are pretty good out here.
Columbia People: I'm so glad for you! Some random girl you used to know just passed out on my arm .... talk to her!
Random girl: Brent?
B: Yea, Hi, It's Brent.
Random Girl: Where are you? When are you coming back?
B: Seattle. You know what, this is getting boring put the other person on the phone.

Aww, I miss those guys. Nowhere else have I found that you can walk around completely shitfaced and yelling "Lube her up, I'm not drunk yet!". Oh, Five Points, one of the last vistages where a P.B.R. chugging fratboy past his prime can find bliss. For those of you that have never been there, imagine all that you know about the Old South with it's Hoop Skirts and Gone With the Wind's suddenly ripped down the seam, and replaced by Abercrombie and Bud Light. (Upon later drunken editing I've decided it's best to start playing Grand Funk Railroad's "I'm Your Captain" at this point). Here you find the diehard and less political drunks out there sipping on $2 Beam and Cokes, but they stumble in between hoards of hair-spiked, "Abercrombie's Ice Shed" t-shirt wearing, paying $4 for a Sam Adams trying-to-be-yuppies-in-the-middle-of-the-deadest-economy-in-the-country- boys who are somewhere between their sophmore and senior year.
Late at night, in the colder wind-whip of 5 Points, the pretty frat boys would run for cover and give us true alcohol soaked boys of the dark a chance to shine. "Oh, that's right, you said your mom was dead". "You know what, this shot would look better if we were making out". "Look, I'm not going to remember your name; where the fuck did I park?"
And in the morning it was O.K. It happened in 5 Points, somewhere between Columbia and a college sophmore's Heaven.
I need to shower.

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