It's getting late, we've had a few too many IPA's and we're starting to look like Ernest Borgnine after a three day bender with Sammy Hagar in a long shoreman’s titty-bar... Jesus? are you there? if you can hear us, we need your help. Where do we go after last call? Not 'last call' as in "you don't have to go home but you can't stay here" last call. I mean like... Bambi's Mother 'last call'. I'm a thirty-something man (not for long) and i'm starting to ponder the usual hereafter concepts, like my own going out of business sale. Not so much in a Dionne Warwick sort of way, but as a means to face the inevitable, eternal, uber-hibernation way. I know people say life begins at forty. Yeah, if you're fucking Conor McCloud of the clan McCloud. But, you know, the rest of us are trying to make sense out of the indecipherable gibberish of everyone else's best guess as to what awaits us behind curtain number 3 in Monty Hall's game show of oblivion. Do we go up into the sky and get wings? Let me get this out right now, I don't need wings. I'm one Wookie-assed son-of-a-bitch. Can you just see my hairy ass with a pair of pearly, unsullied dorsal wings? I'd look like a cross between a Shih Tzu and a pie-eyed pigeon. Ya, makes me shudder too. Or are we just chex mix for worms and grubs. I would like to believe that when I die, I will be able to go up to the Pearly Gates, be greeted by St. Peter and he would say "your blog blows yeti penus" which would still be nice, because at least I would have thoughts to ponder. Like, why is St. Peter such a dick. I would just like to say please don't philosophize while drinking, no fucking good can come from it. Exept, maybe an answer to the question, how did Melissa Ethridge's partner get her pregnant? Mmm... that’s good liquored-up philosophize'n.
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