One day I was walking around the mall...I don't usually do that...because of the "no drunkard hobos" rule...but I did it this day. Believe me on this one. Son's of bitches...just because I am drunk doesn't mean that my stories are all bullshit. Assholes. I mean, just because I have a blood alcohol level that should be called an alcohol blood level doesn't mean that I can't tell a reasonable story...a reasonably true story at that. So, I was walking. This little kid looked up at me...I guess he wanted some whiskey...because that was my drink of choice for the day. Problem was that I had finished my last drop a few hours earlier. I did the only thing a reasonably thinking adult would do. I reached down my throat with my index finger and twanged at the hangy ball thing...you know, the one that makes you puke?...that one. I vomited all over the little boy. I must have really made his day, because he cried tears of joy at just that moment. Either joy or tears of "I have stomach acid all over my face and in my eyes and it i burning my retinas right now." I can never really tell. Point of this story is that the mall doesn't really like it when I try to return underpants. They have some sort of a "you pissed it, you bought it rule." Rediculous if you ask me. Damn it...I have to go back to the mall now...returning these is going to be hard... 

Henry Rayker
¶ 2:21 AM

  Being a drunk is a great thing. First of all you get all the free...wait. Well, the girls love....wait. Give me a second; there must be a reason why I love being a drunk. Ohhh yeah, the reason I love being a drunk is because I get to spend all of my free time...yeah, you guessed it, drunk. I get so drunk, I forget that I have kid-wait, I don't have those either...probably. I am however, great with kids. They love to make fun of me and punch me in the stomach. Damned bastards. I can't understand why they are such little bastards. I mean, what does it take for them to understand what, finders keepers, losers weepers means? Like take this example. This kid was riding a bike alright. I punched him in the head...causing him to fall. I think he was unconscious. I found him laying on the concrete with his bike. I stole his bike. I kept his bike. Then he all calls the cops on me for "stealing". Punk. I spent three days in the tank for that one...little bastard. I hate kids so much. They hate me too. I want some liquor. Hard liqour. Strained through a dirty sock. Into a boot. 

Henry Rayker
¶ 9:22 PM