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Crime and Punishment

BudLite

Good morning y’all. Looks like I’ve found a sweet spot in the time to do my daily posting. Seems that posting after midnight lessens my anxiety in sharing the community computer and reduces my homicidal tendencies. Now that my sleep pattern is altered by sobriety, I seem to have more day. Not that a caged rat needs any more hours in a day.

As promised, today I’ll detail the events that led up to my last incarceration. It started with a squib, or perhaps ended with a squib, depending on your point of view. On November 29th, 2014, my beloved Georgia Bulldogs were playing the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets in our final home game of the season. The game was far too close, resulting in more consumables being consumed than usual. As we went up 24-21 with 18 seconds left in overtime, our coach decided to squib kick to the Gnats, resulting in excellent field position for the self-same Gnats. The Gnats score and we lose 30-24 in a game that should not have been close. The shock of the loss is something akin to going through the windshield at 70 miles per hour; the only treatment prescribed is self induced coma.

Unfortunately, all of the coma inducing medicines had already been consumed, necessitating a trip to the closest purveyor of distilled spirits. As luck would have it, I live in a dry county, surrounded by dry counties. The closest store is over a winding mountain road that is so crooked you think you’re seeing your own tail lights ahead of you. My rage and fury guided me safely to the Double Shot Liquor and Gun Store. My time spent in the parking lot self medicating, while listening to the post game wrap up, got me closer to the coma needed to stop the constant replay of my Dawgs embarrassment in my head.

The trip back is forgotten except for suddenly being surrounded by the flashing lights of different colored police cars, obviously some sort of multi-jurisdictional issue. I remember one officer, who, if he’d been six inches taller would have been perfectly round, going on and on about a “failure to maintain a lane”. I recollect telling him that whichever lane I was in, was the lane I was maintaining. The last thing I recall was hollering, “hey, that’s mine”, as they were pushing my head down into the backseat of the patrol car. Officer Round was confiscating my bottle from the front seat, and I didn’t want there to be any confusion about ownership.

Well, as my dear departed Daddy, Bocephus Lite used to say, “I’m as tired as a fly in a nudist colony”, so we’ll continue my tale of woe tomorrow.

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