I promised you stories, so here's one. Sit back, open a beer, and read on. . .
I had a friend in New Orleans that I will call G. G was a tall, kinda lanky kid of about 22 who usually wore his hair parted and slicked back, and looked like a young Robert Mitchum. He also had this reeaaalllllllly sllllllllllllow Southern draaaaaawlllll and held his head to one side most of the time when he spoke. I had no clue as to whether he was ever sober when I saw him.
One day I happened to see G and he was sporting a rather large lump on his forehead.
"What the hell happened to you?" I asked.
"Awwwww, my girrrrrlfrieeeeend hit me in the heaaaaad with a baaaaaalll peen hammerrrrrrr," was G's response.
Alarmed and intrigued at the same time, I asked, "Why in the world would she do a thing like that?"
"She saaaaaaaaaid I stuck my fingerrrrrrr up her butt. I probahbleeeeee did. I was pretty druuuuunnnnnnnk."
* * * *
Another time, G was wasted and took a header in the Verde Mart (name of a convenience store) in the French Quarter. He just passed out. His friends got him out of there, no problem, then they went back to the store to try to talk the clerk into giving them the surveillance tape so they could watch it over and over again. I'm sorry I missed that one.