You got lost crossing the street.
You reckon that returning an unfinished keg is right on par with your father watching you gettting your ass kicked by a mime.
You get that weird tingling in your groin when you walk past a liquor store.
You take off your hat and strangers drop change into it. Not that you’re complaining.
You have proof the Bud Bowl is fixed.
Your blood will run a lawn mower.
Future generations will call you an urban legend.
M.A.D.D. has a budget line with your name on it.
You’re quite good looking when you’re plastered, and you have the mug shots to prove it.
You can sniff out a hidden bottle of scotch in under two minutes. One minute if it’s been cracked.
You don’t believe in conspiracy theories, but it seems a pretty big coincidence that none of the bars in town will let you stay after hours.
Your bar tabs impact the international price of wheat and barley.
Your hangovers can be seen from space.
You’ve heckled A.A. meetings.
You think you can influence the outcome of a football game two time zones away by yelling at a television.
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