Last night at precisely way past my bedtime, I was at a dive-ass bar called "Nippers." The name alone should tell you. Anyway, I went to Nippers after a lovely couple hours of bowling (which I suck at, and systematically suck more and more after each beer).
I'll set the scene for you. It's karaoke night. It's late. The people here are wasted, and going to far as to attempt to croon Outkast. There's an old drunk guy beating one of my friends at pool (he doesn't lose well). Someone just shattered their cocktail on the floor and I'm wearing flip flops. I'm standing in a nicotine fog since smoking is allowed. I'm babysitting my Mich Ultra... and did I mention it's way past my bedtime?
Bowling started out as a crowd of 6 or 7. From there I drove over to the bar, two friends walked over (it's right next door) and one left to go get his car from somewhere and come right back. This one who was "coming right back" is one of the walking guy's ride at the end of the night (stay with me now...).
Bottom line: Mr. I'm Coming Right Back never comes back. I drive a BMW Z4 (two seats), and there are three of us at the bar. Do the math. 3people2seats. No bueno.
Luckily for Mr. ICRB, we were able to pawn Walker #2 off on someone we knew who mercifully showed up. Because, believe me, I'm not catching a DUI because I somehow drew attention by driving down the street with a random guy riding on my roof.