I was just into the second hour of the Alcohol Awareness class when the drugs kicked in.  The strippers I had befriended the week before were slipping me wads of paper with scrawls of the fun to come.  The week pervious, they questioned my authenticity and eligibility for being part of such a motley crew.  I assured them, my terry cloth shirts and gaunt appearance were only a ploy.  That beneath the facade was a devious loon.  If not for the brave work of one bastard vigilante, I would still be out on the prowl.

The bastard vigilante got involved in my sinister caper when I nearly ran him off the road.  I was searching madly for my bottle of Early Times when I drifted over into his lane.  Apparently, this set off his keen bastard vigilante sense that something was amiss.  He did the only thing a true bastard vigilante could do in a case like that.  He called the law.  After all, it was his civic duty.  To ensure I did not flee the authorities, the bastard vigilante followed me.  Thank Christ he did.  I might have gone on an execrable spree that would have made Jesse James recoil in disgust.  We pulled up in front of my house.  The brave bastard of a vigilante rolled down his window to tell the law was on the way.  I nodded with the utmost gratitude and resumed the search for my Early Times.  I figured, I would already fail a breathalyzer so I might as well have a few more snorts.  I motioned to the bastard vigilante that he was welcome to imbibe.  However, his upstanding status in the bastard vigilante community prohibited him from drinking on the job.  I wanted to be sure I was well greased for a night in jail.  Eventually that's where I landed on that warm summer evening.

Now I was here.  In a room full of fellow scofflaws, I was reeling from the pre-game Vicodins and was itching for the halftime show.  The strippers held promises of booze in their car.  God knows what else waited, but the booze was a fine place to start.  The time arrived for us to be released to drink coffee and inhale cigarettes.  I passed on both and followed the strippers to their ride.  I skipped like a kid going to the park.  I jumped in the front seat while the two ladies jumped in the back.  I found two pints of delicious whiskey awaiting me in brown paper bags.  The ladies got out a pipe and popped in some meth.  They had the appearance of meth girls....not the hardcore meth people you see on television.  Instead, they were more like the functional meth people you see at Wal-Mart scoping out the Sudafed situation.  They asked if I wanted a hit.  I politely declined and opted for my DOC (drug of choice).  Plus, the Vicodins would go better with booze than with meth and I still had to keep some semblance of control for two more hours.  

I had over half the pint gone when the strippers ran out of meth.  They started making out.  Then they looked at me with inviting eyes.  A wave of excitement and fear rushed over me at the same time.  These strippers had decent bodies and average faces, by themselves not that appealing of a conquest.  As a pair, the level of interest was heightened.  One said, "Do you care if we share you?"  What a sweet phrase for drunken ears.  My first instinct was to jump in the back seat with both feet.  I restrained with all my energy.  Two things popped into my mind.  First of all, I was probably not the first guy these two had shared today.  Second, I'd been on a month long bender.  My equipment was not in prime working order.  I would hate to be the guy who couldn't salute a couple of corn-fed strippers due to whiskey dick.  The fear ran through me like a wounded bear charging a hunter.  I took another long swig and said, "How about I watch for a minute?"  They giggled and resumed making out, this time pulling down their tank tops to expose their wonderful mommy parts.  I enjoyed this scene and burnt into my memory.  The time for us to go back quickly arrived.

I wisely decided to strap the remaining bottle of whiskey to my leg and sneak it into the classroom.  These types of executive decisions are best made on an empty stomach of Vicodin and whiskey while watching one girl kiss another girl's breasts.  So it went.  I immediately go into the coed bathroom and hide the whiskey in a cabinet.  I let the strippers know so they too can have a few nips.  The class begins and the booze is catching up with me.  I decide what I need is some cold water on my face.  I retreat to the bathroom.  Of course I think to myself, "Since I'm here, I might as well have another drink."  The mind is a wonderful thing to waste.  I go to turn the water off before going back out with the other animals, and I knock the whiskey bottle to the floor.  It shatters.  The fear and loathing instantly consume me like a super nova engulfing a nearby planet.  The knock at the door comes much quicker than I think it should.  I decide fleeing is the best option.  I clean up what I can and bolt out the door.  The instructor is trying to figure out the situation as I am headed out the door.  The strippers are laughing and telling me goodbye.  The scene is a bit surreal.  Reality hits hard when I get out and I have no ride and I realize I've just broken probation in the basement of the probation office building.  So I do the only thing that makes sense.  I walk to the nearest liquor store to forget the cornucopia of mistakes I had just made.  I also keep a watchful eye out for any bastard vigilantes on the hunt for a scoundrel like me.