The concept of going out from Friday till Sunday and getting wasted has always baffled me. For two reasons, mainly, those being that blottoness seems pointless -- wouldn't you rather have crystal-clear memories of having fun -- and if you're going to wake up with a screaming headache, why do so on your own time? Isn't it far better to schedule your hangover for that horrible sales-meeting with the big football players from the fly-overs?
Big smelly John says: "Think outside the box, all of you. There is no 'EYE' in 'team."
What a dingo; does he EVER have an original thought?
He's the corner-stone of the sales force.
High-school jock, super butch.
A popular guy.
You have two choices.
The first one is responding with: "Let's throw that at the wall and see if it sticks. If not, we can do lunch over this and see if we can strategize a directly implementable methodology to manage the inevitable infrastructure alterations that will be necessitated by the failures in communication. Why don't you reach out to your people to see if they can coordinate a time, and send me the 411 at your earliest convenience."
The second choice is to calmly lean over and vomit.
Jesus. You've always wanted to do that.
Thanks to Bourbon, now you can.
He'll sure remember the San Francisco sales meeting.
Probably for the rest of his life.
With any luck, the trauma will wake him up screaming every night.
The memory, oh, the horror! Make it stop!
Consequently, I confess my self completely baffled at the sheer number of zombies, werewolves, and vampires floating up and down Polk Street on Saturday evening. During the week those people are probably utterly normal worker bees, unremarkable, without any distinguishing peculiarities or interesting characteristics.
Saturday night, they know they're fabulous.
Totally unique individuals.
Drunk.
I would rather be a pain in the gand during working hours.
My time off is when I'm at my very best.
Mondays and Tuesdays are for leisure.
I am all sweetness and light right now.
Note: Waffflegab business blurkle above courtesy of Greg, a notorious bon vivant.
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