Drunk Driving

Sunday Brunch is a slippery slope that ultimately leaves you half-in-the-bag early in the afternoon. It usually starts with a “socially acceptable” morning libation such as the classic Bloody or Mimosa, and then before you know it you are knocking back beers and all productive aspirations for the day dissolve into a rambling bunch of drunks looking for somewhere to keep the party going. This past Sunday found the Captain on such a quest as plans of yard work and spring cleaning were doused with afternoon beers and a impromptu excursion to the Driving range to whack a bucket and consume more beer.

 

The appeal of drunk driving quickly wore off and off we stumbled to the go-carts for some more drunk driving. There is defiantly something about a nice beer buzz early in the afternoon that transforms the mild mannered Captain into a well seasoned NASCAR champion. With the liquid courage coursing through my veins I laughed manically with each cart I passed and ruthlessly put at least two teenybopper Hannah Montana types into the wall. I asked for no quarter and gave no quarter as I callously waved off repeated warnings from the pimply faced attendants. They repeatedly yelled and frantically gestured to the “Absolutely NO Bumping” signs. What a bunch of pussies! I wasn’t bumping, I was racing and if those punk ass Chester kids can’t hang then they must eat the wall, I don’t care whose birthday party it is,   cause If you ain’t first, you’re last. That’s just how the Captain rolls, as hard as a diamond in an ice storm.

 

Does that blow your mind? That just happened! Shake and Bake Bitches:

 

As always yours, washed in the blood of the lamb and baptized in dirty water,

 

The Capt.

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