Time Travel

By time travel, I do not mean installing a flux capacitor on my Delorean. I actually am talking about that amazing phenomenon that happens when you drink too much whiskey. Now some of you naysayers may say, "Kevin, drinking that much is bad for you." I would agree if my liver didn't happen to be a fucking trooper. Since it is, fuck you in the nicest way possible.

The best way to define my kind of time traveling would be to define it as the skipping of memories and partial recognition of events that occurred in a night of binge drinking. A sane person may think of this as a bad thing, but then again, who the fuck listens to a sane person. Time traveling is truly an art. It gives you the ability to remember the good parts of a night, and subconsciously ignore the bad parts. It also makes you feel like you are a part of CSI the next morning.

For example: You may remember pulling your pants down at a club. You then ask yourself, "why would I do such a thing?" You then deduce that you must have been talking to a very hot chick with tattoos on her boobies who wanted to see if your penis was as big as you were bragging. You then realize that you were probably increasing your penis size by 400% by saying that it was 8 inches, so you instead decided to just show her the "brain." This in turn must have been the cause of the slight memory you have of a woman running away in terror and amusement.

That would seem to infer that the semen stain on your pants came from simple masturbation with tears as lubricant from the embarrassing events that occurred at the club. But wait! We forgot about the long red hair that was stuck in your zipper! Logically, there must have been some slutty redhead that was amused by your being rejected. She must have felt pity on you, and have given you an awesome and regret-filled bj. Case closed. Either that or your dick tried to strangle itself with a tiny piece of red rope. No, we're going with the one where a girl actually touched your wiener.

Now tell me that deciding to drink what society would call "too much" was a bad idea. How else would you get the satisfaction of thinking you got semi-laid and solving a fucking mystery? The way I see it, I got two choices y'all; pull over the car, or bounce on the double put the pedal to the floor. Now I ain't tryin' to see no hollywood chase with Jake, so I choose the road less traveled and decide that we got fucking laid last night!

In conclusion, if you feel me, throw your damn hands up. Word to your mother, and good will towards men (not women).