Pumping the Brakes

Brrrr..  After what seems like 8 fucking YEARS of it being a thousand degrees outside, this mild 72 is making my nipples hard enough to cut some glass-- and that ain't a bad thing.  Especially if you'd ever had the pleasure of actually seeing these fucking things.  Big boobs are, apparently, desirous,  even though according to my brothers, more than a handful is a waste.  Well, what the fuck do they know anyway?  My fuckin' tits need their own fucking grocery store cart, that's how awesomely huge they are.  Yeah, that's right-- a fucking grocery store cart. 

Well anyway, who gives a shit about the size of my boobs anyway, I know Honeybadger sure don't.

So today's the third day here in Colorado, and day Two of waking up feeling like my head has been crushed between two steel plates- you know, sorta like that trash compactor scene from Star Wars.  Meaning, I kinda feel like shit.  And know what the best medicine for that is?  Water and ibuprofen?  NO- what kind of self-respecting party hound would do THAT?  The best medicine is, 100 per-fucking-cent, breakfast beer.  Get up, get outta bed, take a shit and clear your head, and then pour yourself a fucking PBR and toss in some orange juice.  Redneck Mimosa, Poor Man's Mimosa, Beermosa, whatever the fuck you wanna call it, it's the breakfast drink of champions.  Drink one of those and your headache starts going away, you start gettin' your swagger back on, and next thing you know, you're right back to being all the awesome you were pretty sure you were last night, when you were flirting with that ridiculously hot bartender.  Yup.

Fucking breakfast beer.

Today, shitsticks, Skamp is gonna rock it out once more before giving the liver a break and heading back to Wyoming.  And you better fuckin' believe I'm starting my day off with a Pibber and oj, because never is alcoholism more awesome than first thing in the morning.  Us, you know, COOL boozehounds call it Pumping The Brakes-- easing off that drunk instead of slamming the brakes and hitting your head on the metaphorical dashboard of life-- it's the head bashing on the dashboard that gives you the headache, you know.  Hence staving off said headache with sippin' booze, first thing.  Christ, my liver is going to stop being friends with me, one of these days.  But until then, I'll pretend to be its friend, toss it a bone every now and then, maybe give it a $10 gift card to WalMart, and take it out to dinner at a truck stop for some biscuits and gravy.

 Skampin' ain't easy, yo.