I spent the weekend in St. Augustine, hanging out with PIC writer Michael Curtiss and his friends. On the way back, I stopped three times to shit and once to puke. That, my friends, is a weekend.

There is a man running for political office in St. Augustine and his name is Brud. Someone, somewhere thought that would be a good name for another living creature. I think that says something about the world. I'm just not sure what.

There are few disappointments in life quite like being exactly one minute too late to purchase alcohol. It hurts. I mean it stings. And worse yet, it's always followed by returning home to a place that just doesn't have enough alcohol in it. Life is tough sometimes.

I have hung out with Michael Curtiss now on two different weekends. Both of those weekends, someone fought him in a living room. He's two for two. You're telling me you wouldn't read this guys column (if he wrote one)? I know you're not telling me that. He's like a magnet for fucking funny (twice the fuck of regular funny).

I'm sure y'all already know this, but this weekend was a reminder so it warrants mentioning: no one drinks like 21 year old college boys. Beer bongs might as well be mugs when you're that age.

Because I am a typical, red blooded, American male, I feel I need to tell you this. I made it from Tampa to St. Augustine in about two hours and ten minutes. No joke or nothing. Just wanted to tell you that I made good time. Probably because I didn't have to pull over every sixty miles to shit when I was driving to St. Augustine.

When I got back to my apartment, my neighbor saw me walking up and proceeded to complain to me about all the parties the complex hosted over the weekend. He was actually blaming me. After he finished his tirade, I said, “I was out of town all weekend. That's why I'm carrying luggage.”

And the fucker didn't apologize. He just proceeded to cuss out all the kids in my neighborhood, adding, “I mean, didn't that noise bother you?”

To which I responded, “Dude, I was on the other side of the state.”

His reply: “Just testing you.”

Clearly the battle of wits has begun.

Anyway, because logic and fluidity are sweating alcohol in a sixty degree room, I leave you with the following, which was said by Curtiss's roommate, Matt:

“Ideally, your roommate isn't supposed to blindside you with a cheap shot. I mean, in a perfect world and all.”


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