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August 7, 2004 -
Sequels are such delicate affairs, never quite as fun as the first
one, sometimes they turn into dangerous bombs. Fortunately,
the second big night of alcoholism that started with a bottle of Mad
Dog Orange Jubilee wasn't like that at all.
Starting out on familiar territory, the
same QT, the same Mad Dog, the same Milwaukee's Best 24 oz., I told
Jodie that we were already in a rut. I also told her because
neither one of us died from drinking Mad Dog doesn't mean we're in
the clear, it means now we're only playing with house money.
And so it went, after being morally
offended at having to pay a dollar to gain entry to drink in
Westport, D and I stopped off on the way in for a couple of hot dogs
from a street vender. She made this mistake of calling the
dogs wonderful, which is the name of the Wonder dog cart on the next
corner.
We ended up drinking the night away at
Buzzard's Beach, with yours truly drinking Hamm's, sprinkled in with
a few shots and finishing the night off with a gyro that
unceremoniously spilled its sauces onto my sneaker. Plop.
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