But, I heard that Google has developed technology that will prevent people who are drunk from emailing using their gmail accounts. Amazing, eh? We can't figure out the stock market, why our politicians are crooked rich homos and we can't cure cancer, but sayonara to the days of emailing your ex-fuckbuddy with testimony that they have crabs; or your boss and telling him that his wife went down on the entire accounting department at the Christmas Party and it was all captured on film...so I guess that's a good thing.
Wait. That's a bad thing. The accounting department is a bunch of assholes. The sales department deserved those hummers. Whore.
Anyway, I am sure that this technology is past my time. You see, I am 33 years old. Gone are the days of my getting drunk and attempting to get in touch with the special someone of my past/current life when those life altering moments afix themselves to my cerebral cortex. And that time is usually after a long night of sitting with Stinky Pete the homeless psychiatrist at the bar, sucking back Rocky Mountain Bear Fuckers and Mickey's widemouths, vomiting on the pool table, stumbling out of the bar (see: physically removed, see: thrown fifteen yards) and then finding a phone to make those monumentous thoughts known...at three in the morning.
Or worse, stumbling across town to that lovely lady's residence and gently throwing (see: 80 mph fastball) rocks at their window to alert them of your arrival and need to pleasantly talk at 4 a.m.
So I am told.
You know what? Now I am pissed.
Where were you then, AT&T, to prevent me from calling my girlfriend at 2:00am at her parents house forty-two times in seven minutes from The Wharf Rat in downtown Baltimore?
Where were you, Lord Almighty, to strike me down with an sudden acute case of tendinitis while throwing rocks at my ex girlfriend's window on the second floor of her house at four-thirty in the mornin', rendering my arm as inaccurate as a porno star wearing a cock ring during the money shot?
Nowhere, and for that, I faced humiliation and despair at those moments, which mean nothing because I don't recall any of them I was so plastered, so they really didn't happen.
Please disregard.
Nice work Google. Make the fuckers learn the hard way. Even if I do get a kick out of receiving drunk emails from some people. Just don't get rid of drunk blogging, because most of my stuff would be gone.
Good day.
