Some of you don't know me in real life, so you'd probably be surprised to learn that I'm a pretty timid dipshit that is pretty much afraid of his own shadow. Surely you can imagine my terror when I learn't that our plans consisted of going out for dinner at an Indian restaurant with our good friends, and then heading back to their crib for a crazy NYE party.
See, no matter how much I love it, Indian food usually gives me insane 'rrhea, and I am very nervous about FUCKING SHITTING anywhere other than my own toilet.
As luck would have it, I ate a sensible amount of my moderately spicy dish, had leftovers, and was able to enjoy the rest of the night in furious HYM fashion (titties, whiskey, drugs, etc.), sans the usual scorched-porcelain/anus-excretions.
We'll have more holiday stories later, but for now, lettuce turn our attention to a recent comment on one of my older posts.
Christ, back in October, I posted a few generalizations about various fans of certain authors and other things. Imagine the smile on my face when I see, a couple months later, my friend *** dropping some knowledge in the comments section.
Read on, friends:
Considering the expertise *** displayed in the area now known as "douchey authors", I have turned over the password to this blog and he will now be fully responsible for carrying on the fine literary tradition at HYM.