The following tale is as true as my memory allows. It occurred four years ago in the City of Indians, where we often drink too much and do stupid things. I’m sure that life is nothing like that where you live. While not directly related to the birth of little baby Jesus, the story is ultimately His fault, because He failed to come to my aid in a timely fashion. Up your nose with a rubber hose, little baby Jesus. It all began at the company Christmas party, a place famous for the bad decisions it inspires. I chalk it up to a year's worth of proletarian frustration exploding into a burst of revolutionary stupidity. This party, however, did not seem likely to descend into proper bacchanalia. I sat in a downtown bar surrounded by boring, witless people who spoke constantly of nothing. As nature abhors a vacuum, so I abhor the vacuous. I escaped the inanity by drinking and drinking and drinking. And, when the party was over, I remained in the bar with two of my least o
A celebration of crap.