So last night I was beating him soundly as usual when we decided to break for dinner. We had beer in the fridge, which is rare, and I'd had a tough day, which isn't really all that true considering I have the least stressful job on earth...but nevertheless, we decided to indulge in a beer* a piece. We ate quickly without speaking (presumably because we were too busy working on our strategies for the next
We didn't get far into our game before I noticed something was off. I was still winning, but not to the degree to which I've become accustomed over the past few days. We'd been playing for a full three minutes and Gary hadn't even broken a sweat, much less been reduced to tears. Yes, something was definitely wrong. Suddenly, I became aware of the cold bottle resting between my leg and the arm of the couch and everything made sense. DAMN YOU, WOODCHUCK! YOU'RE RUINING MY STATISTICS!
Just when I thought I might be able to catch up to my dad's high score (don't let the name AAAAAAA? trick you into thinking he wouldn't destroy you just because he was too lazy to scroll through and find the letters T, I and M when he was setting up his username) alcohol strolls in and nonchalantly throws a wrench in my plans.
Long story short, I'm thinking the cops might be onto something. Don't drink and drive; hugs not drugs; click it or ticket; etc. I love it when my blog posts have a moral.
*I don't drink beer because beer is for men and/or girls who are cooler than me. I drink Woodchuck, which might easily be mistaken for beer but is actually just hard cider because I'm a sissy.