I made the mistake of telling George where I was car camping yesterday evening. He came pulling up late last night blaring his gospel music.
“What’s up my brotha!” He exclaimed jovially from the open windows of his car as he pulled up.
“Just great!” I thought as my stealth camping spot was now revealed to all who passed by.
George got in my car with a case of Milwaukee’s Best Ice beer and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. With each beer his speech grew more mangled and confused. Soon, he was passed out. I walked around the car to open the passenger’s door and released the lever for the seat to recline it. Sherman went flopping backwards as the seat reclined with a loud thud. He didn’t wake up until this morning when my alarm clock went off.
“Let’s move your car over to the shopping center,” I said.
George was still drunk as hell this morning and stumbled to get into his car. He did manage to drive it over to the shopping center and parked it. I then drove us down to the Waffle House to eat some breakfast hoping it would sober George up some.
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