This is Weekend Open Bar.

I’ve got a cold this weekend, folks. This is how bad of a cold I’ve got, I’ll tell ya, I’ll tell ya. My cold is so fucking bad that I couldn’t even finish my chimichanga. How’s that for a fucking cold? My cold is so fucking bad that my farts are thick, hateful, nightmare blasts of Theraflu chemicals and phlegm-gut. How’s that for a fucking cold?

But the Theraflu does its job, oh yes. I knew the Theraflu was doing its job earlier tonight. I knew it while I was walking the Snowbeast and out of nowhere came the thought, “Man, I’m damn comfortable, I could just lay down.” Now mind you I may live on a rather comfortable, middle-class street. But at no time should a gangly man with a SpaceX hoodie be laying on the damp concrete sidewalk, a confused Great Pyrenees alternating between lapping at her owner and struggling to break free and run into the woods for a Vision Quest.

After I had that thought, after I processed that potential consequence, I thought to myself. Well golly, I’m straight fucked-up on Theraflu!

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