Howdy, ladies and gents and misanthropes. It's Monday night, I'm drinking cheap whiskey, we've seen another Super Bowl come and go, and I haven't been to one of my classes in two weeks. That being said, let's begin.

Those of you who keep a rough chronological timeline of my writing will notice that I began and ended a series on hobos, “On Hobos”, last week. I enjoyed it, and I hope you did too. Expect stuff like that (i.e. a departure from my normal stuff, like this post) in the future, when you least expect it.

Getting Guitar Hero for Christmas, for some reason, led me to play my actual wood-and-string guitar much less. As a result, the callouses that I had acquired from 6+ years of gee-tar grinding have all but disappeared, leaving me with hands that feel like they're learning to play all over again. If you've never played guitar and have no idea what I'm typing about, imagine or do the following; get a dull butter knife and press your fingertips against the edge of it for about an hour. Continue to do this until you bleed, weep, or spontaneously learn to play guitar. You now know what it feels like to be a budding guitar player, having to apply digit pressure to what is essentially a strip of wire for an elongated amount of time.

Nate DeGraaf, PIC's resident old-timer and most prolific blogger, hasn't published his Monday post, as of 10:09 PM. We can conclude from this that he has lost the will to live, and is no longer with us. Requiescat in pace, Flying Dutchman.

This past Saturday, I was more fucked up than I can (hardly) remember being in quite some time. I downed a half a handle of bourbon, battled through three games of beer pong, and a hit off the bowl that was making the rounds at the party. I had little to no control over my actions, and have been informed ex-post-facto that I made several people quite angry, for a number of reasons which shan't be discussed here. On Sunday, I was unable to keep down so much as a few swigs of water and a peanut butter cracker. I was, however, fully recovered by kickoff of Super Bowl XLII, the results of which have been extensively covered in my last comprehensive blog post. The moral of this story? If I intensely train, constantly upping my tolerance and average nightly consumption (ANC), then I can avoid this type of hangover. Seriously, folks, I actually had the thought, “Maybe you should lay off the drinking for a while,” at which point I actually punched myself in the face and fell asleep within a few minutes. When I woke up, I came to my senses, took a swig of bourbon, and felt like a new man. Shwing.

Edgar Allen Poe was a whiny bitch. There, I said it. Good writer, though.

I've decided that when I receive my tax refund, I'm going to open up a brokerage account and invest every penny of it. This way, I wont feel like I'm spending my own money, since it's really just getting back what was stolen from me in the first place. Also, I've been reading up on the market for the past few months, and feel like I actually may be able to make some competent investment decisions. That's right- I'm puttin' it all on Enron.

And, since it's been lost in the Savannah for far too long, I bring you today's booze safari, sure to amaze children and enrage terrorists;

1. Link to “American football”.

2. Link to “Tailgate Party”.

3. Link to “Alcoholic beverage”.

Almost too easy. See ya, you beautiful bastards.