"Hmmm, you might have something there," said Bill, who was seconds away from looking for Turbonegro on the jukebox.

"Two: You have a favorite brand of hard liquor, and will not drink any other brand in said genre. Three: You make Charles Bukowski allusions. Four: All of your Facebook photos are of you with a drink in your hand, or at a party, or passed out with Sharpie all over your face. Five ..."

"'Five: You make know-it-all lists of stupid shit'?"

Well, he had me there.

Bill never did get completely blotto, but then again, he never does. He ain't no lightweight. Besides, the real drinking would begin when he got home and had access to on-demand horror films. As for the rest of the place, it was mostly other guys like Bill, drinking their own favorite poison and cuing up songs of their forgotten youth. Drink drink drink, said the room. Sure, okay, yes, said the patrons. And on it went.

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