Abbey was her name

And getting me fucked up was her game.

I was bored on Friday. Leaving work at noon was the best idea I had had. Of course if I was smart I would have taken all of Friday off but don't go around giving me too much credit here. Knowing my boss was off to Las Vegas for the weekend didn't help keep me focused on work either. So I really had to bale.

Once I had broken the shackles of corporate America, I was free to pursue other interests for the weekend. Funny how I found myself staring into a beer cooler deciding which fine malted beverage would tickle my palate and make my brain do back flips. The New Glarus Spotted Cow looked quite appealing. The 6 pack jumped into my hand and I was off to pay for it.

As I stood there at the counter, I heard a voice behind me, calling my name. The Sprecher products begged for my attention. But one little voice was heard above the others. Triple Abbey. Like the song of the Sirens, I reached in and grabbed her full body bottle towards me. 5 minutes later, she was opened and poured. Tasty little tramp. As much as I enjoyed taking advantage of her 8.4% alcohol content, little did I know she was setting me up.

Abbey had worked my thirst up. I had intended to have a beer or two before heading out to a church smoker. But once the six pack of Cow was gone, I knew I wasn't playing cards. I even found Al online and told him of my situation. I had a choice to make. Go to the liquor store and get some more or into my car and off to the bar. Knowing if I got tanked someone could give me a ride home, I was off to Big Mommas.

Now, those of a weaker constitution would have tone down their brew of choice at this point. I would have none of that. The Blue Moon looked good. Tasted even better. With friends around and the beer flowing, a good time was had by all. I don't recall much of went on. I do remember one all too long dial-a-shot with Bobby Bracelet (who sounded way too sober for a young man on a Friday night). Being the gent I am, I had him speak with Sara instead of me. I probably wasn't making much sense at the time anyways. I believe English was a second language at that time. I remember telling Randy that the Sprecher Trabble Ippy had got me drunk and I hated that bitch now.

The next morning I woke up with a massive hangover. As much as I wanted to just lay there in bed and die (yes, I believed I ask God to take my life right then and now at least a dozen times), I did remember I had shelled out 20 bucks to play poker. Shit! By noon I was back at Big Mommas and playing cards. Of course, the best cure for a hangover is the hair of the dog so I soon had a pint in my hand.

Over 11 hours later, I had left again. But not after a lengthy discussion about the worst commercial ever made. Remember the infamous line...."Mom, do you ever get that......no so fresh feeling?". The word "twat" was bandied about for the rest of the day. If it wasn't for the free beer all night, I would have left hours ago. But that would have required a brain. Mine was laying on it's own couch having a beer.

Thus, watching Olympic events that you see every 4 years was my only interest yesterday. It also didn't help that I twisted my knee a bit trying not to sit on my cat who was in the middle of the couch.

A recovery day can be such a good thing.