Well. Whatta weekend. If there'd been fried clam platter involvement, I could safely say I engaged in every one of my favorite activities within the same 24-hour period. That, I would call an excellent weekend.
But no. No fried bivalves. Instead, there was an experiment. In grains-mixing. So extreme it could change the face of medical science for all eternity. In fact, I'd be under the couch in the fetal position right now if not for that magic potion/fountain of youth/elixir of the gods...
That's right, baybees: RED BULL.
You know how they say "Beer and then liquor, never sicker"? Pussies! I'm here to tell you that beer and then wine and then vodka is a survivable accident, as long as Red Bull gets into the mix. Red Bull, once again, has saved my life.
Longtime Bumptiousites might remember that evening affectionately known as the Unfortunate Chippendale's Incident of 2004. Let me add in my own defense that the bartenders were pouring heavy and nobody told me you're not supposed to touch the dancers. In any case, I was up and running my daily 3.5 at a reasonable hour the next day. Fresh as a daisy. By rights, I should've been on my knees in a church, guzzling holy water and praying for a swift and merciful death.
But there is no affliction known to man or beast that 600MG of glucuronolactone can't put a dent in. And that 80MG of caffeine doesn't hurt, either.
So I felt pretty good today, given the circumstances. The only shaky moments occurred between miles three and four on the treadmill at the gym, when I briefly considered
What have we learrrrrrned?
Beer is for the END of the evening, not the beginning
Not all little dogs are annoying
The best way to retain one's cashmere scarves is to refrain from wearing them to bars
Kenwood makes a mighty fine Zinfandel
Which one must never drink
And before vodka
Great weekend, overall, though.