It's late. It's 1:30 in the a.m. and I just got home from work. We were freaking busy. I hate getting home this late. I can't sleep. I'm too hopped up on espresso shots and Cliff bars. I guess I'll have a beer or three and watch some Sportscenter, catch up on the TiVo. Dangle some participles.
I've come to realize that the only people on the road at this time of night are drunks and those of us that served them. Driving home is like playing a video game. Cars are going too fast and too slow. They are swerving and drifting. They shoot lasers and spill small explosives. Well, not that last part, it's more of a lob than a spill, but they're still dangerous.
Actually that would be a great video game. I could get a celebrity endorsement like Tracy Morgan or the cast of LOST. Although, the game version would probably require the player be the drunk rather than the the guy trying to avoid them. Sin sells. Slap a "M for Mature" on that and every kid in America will have it.
But I digress. My point was, and is, that it is freaking late. Too late for sitting here in the glow of the Christmas tree drinking Ebenezer Ale and waiting for the muscle relaxers to kick in, but I'm doing it. Why? Because I'm Whitness Danger Honea. It's what I do.