My Friends Are Pussies

Last night was what I call Christmas for Drunks: The end of Daylight Savings Time, which means an extra hour of bar time. Seasoned barflies know and hate Michigan's cursed 2am cutoff time. There's just one night of the year when a drunk can blearily squint at the clock behind the bar, see that it says 2, and defiantly order another drink. And another. And another.

So even though I was tired from drinking until 4:30 on Friday night, I had to round up a crew to celebrate Christmas. There were around a dozen of us at The Arena, throwing back Two Hearteds, Jager bombs, gin and tonics, and what-have-you. It was going great.

But you know what? One by one, people started to bail. I tried to shame them, insult their man- or womanhood, and otherwise harangue and cajole, but to no avail. I was by myself by 1:30 or so. It was up to me to press on alone.

And I did. Because unlike my friends, I'm not a pussy. Unlike my friends, I have Christmas spirit. And unlike my friends, I'm a manly, seasoned professional who has perpetrated several all-night New Orleans benders. And in comparison, this was amateur stuff.

So I continued with more shots and beers with the good folks who work there, until I was properly thrown out at 3. I mean 2.

Merry Christmas, all you real drunks.