Like Jekyll before him, El Bastardo, represents the repressive id that is usually kept in check by the super E. thingo, but sometimes a little too much drinky drink allows the bastard to rear its ugly head. Did that run-on make any fucking sense? Fuhck. I'm drunk. Fuck it.

Now usually Bastardo can be kept in check by either consuming water between every drink or committing a houdini . The latter usually pisses your friends off and the drinkage of water is usually the last thing you're thinking about when you're in your sippage of the Makey. A beer back, maybe? Club soda. Hint of lime?

I was happily drinking a cup of hairbender at the stump writing a PB post. I had no intentions of becoming El Bastardo, but really, who ever looks forward to that shit. I was in there for what was probably the better of a couple hours when I got the stomach pang of hell. It was 4 something and XV's ahi thingy was sounding really good... Ahi and a Stella, that is. Ahem... Stellas.

I arrived at the 1 fucking 5 to an emtpy bar and one pissed off Marta. I don't know what the fuck was going on in her life, but really, do you have to take it out on me? Leave that shit at home. Anyway, three Stellas later and a stomach full of seared fish I was feeling pretty good. Sitting comfortably in my leather chair I IM'd Kyle (who was convinced that he was sick) that he should fuck it and join me for a deuce or something. He was pretty steadfast about his condition, but after a bowl of soup he "re-fucked it." What was he fucking thinking?

Kyle arrived 30 minutes later and ordered a Stella. I was on four, but didn't really care. We thought we'd say hello to Linda and headed to the Tun. I had told Kyle an hour before that she was there asking about him. I totally fucking lied, but the little white lie got the fucker out. We ordered a rum and coke, but quickly left when we realized the rimmer was serving. Just not a big fan of the rimmer. What do you do? We headed back to the XV possibly hoping to rekindle happy moods for Marta. That sappy bullshit just didn't fly so we opted for the Virginia Cafe for a little change in atmosphere. Sorry Marta, it just wasn't your night.

To our surprise drinks were on serious special. 2 bucks for well and whatevers. We opted for the Turkey and a beer back. Becky, the bartendress, was a definite pro. She poured the turkey like she was winding a pitch. It's one of those "you had to have been there" moments. After two pours and the complimentary beer backs Kyle had the sudden urge to go to Ankeny's. I had no objections and we were off.

At this point I probably should have pulled an houdini . I mean all logic was telling me I had enough, but when Chris Robinson approached us there was no turning back. This happy drunk's real name I'll never know. He seriously looked like Chris Robinson so that was his name. I insisted. He was a big sports fan. Kyle and I are not. We should have nothing to talk about with this guy, but we made up shit that seemed to stir debate. I insisted that President Bush was an eloquent speaker and Kyle posed as a big Cincinnati Cyclone fan. My comments really got Chris riled up. Kyle's obvious lack of knowledge confounded the lost soul even more. All-in-all, El Bastardo, was beginning to rear its ugly head. The fuckage of the people: The first phase of the bastardo. What the fuck is the point? In hindsight there is none, but at the time everything makes sense. The cynical bastard begins to overpower the logical conservative, the adult becomes the child, and the fucking Klingon begins to sound British.

Jeff, the bouncer, was getting off work and invited us to Sandy Hutt. Jen was going to be there so it sounded like a good fucking time at the time. Fuck. Jeff gave us a ride in his white lightning Cadillac Seville. A pleasant ride, indeed, albeit, a bit fuzzy in my cog memtron.

We arrived clearly destroyed. I don't even know how we weren't quickly told to get the fuck out, but before I knew it a strong Makers and coke was hand delivered into my clasping hand. I vaguely remember the knights of the roundtable setting. Jen and company were happily drinking and I ran into an old friend (who now owns Masu sushi). I have yet to check out the place. He was hanging out with a Sam Elliot clone. Man, this really was a night of the Look-alikes. This post is slowly falling apart. Fuhck... to make a long story fucking short...

Jen invited us to her place for an after hours drink. Why I agreed I'll never know. Next thing I know I'm drinking two shots of Jager. After having a stupid conversation with Jeff that made him beg the question, "where did you meet this guy?" I ended the evening by striking a lighter in the presence of a cat's asshole. I guess I was trying to light farts, but somehow my intentions got lost in translation. Needless to say, Jen was pretty fucking pissed off and for that I am truly sorry. El Bastardo was complete. I was now utterly evil. There was no turning back. Regretfully, I don't remember the rest of the night. I'm sure it wasn't good. A taxi ride home. A puke and a fart? Damn, the bastard. Damn it.