Allamakee County Chronicles XXXI – The Code
Note: A preview from my upcoming autobiography, Life’s Too Short to Smoke Cheap Cigars (Or to Drink Cheap Whiskey.)
The Code
There are rules to civilized behavior. Some are codified and enforced by various levels of government. We call those laws. Some are enforced only by social feedback. We call those manners.
Then there is the larger set of rules, rules young men live by when engaged in various nocturnal adventures after reaching drinking age (wink). Those rules are known as The Code.
The actual by-gosh Utsunomia Station.
The Code includes such cautions as “do not seek to score with your buddy’s ex-girlfriend,” “wash your truck before picking up a girl for a first date,” and so forth. One of the primary rules in The Code is this: “When drinking with another guy, if he gets too shitfaced, you are responsible for getting him home safe.” This item has been known to cause some regrettable missed opportunities, as happened to me once in Japan, in the Tochigi Prefecture city of Utsunomia.
On the Friday evening in question, having wrapped up a workweek, I had gone back to the hotel and donned my usual jeans, RCS (Red Cowboy Shirt), tooled boots, big belt buckle and big white gus-crown cowboy hat to go out on the town. I wandered the town more or less uneventfully until, after passing the main train station, I was approached by a Japanese salaryman still in his near-uniform black suit, white shirt, and dark tie. He was not walking so much as staggering, clearly on the point of collapse. He shouted “Hey, cowboy!” Approaching me with a huge grin on his sweaty face, he stuck out his hand for a handshake.
He indicated a nearby brightly lit sign advertising what is euphemistically known in Japan as a “girl bar.” “Want to go have beers?” he asked me. “I pay!”
Needing a moment to mull this over, I took one of my big cigars out of a shirt pocket, trimmed it, lit it, and took a couple of puffs. Seeing this, my would-be drinking buddy’s grin widened, so I trimmed another, gave it to him and lit it for him while thinking hard. On the upside, it might be entertaining, and he was offering to pay. On the downside, the guy was clearly on the point of passing out, and if I took him up on the offer, I would have had to make sure he got home safe somehow. Why? The Code. Sadly, my Japanese language skills are less than minimal, and his English didn’t seem like much, leaving me with little confidence I could figure out where he lived, making it difficult to get him safely home when he was, to use the medical term, plastered.
In the end I smiled and politely declined, claiming fatigue. He smiled, shook my hand again, and staggered off down the street, cigar clamped in his teeth, trailing clouds of fragrant blue smoke.
Sometimes abeyance to The Code can be harsh, but I thought I had done the right thing.
This One Time
To describe my first experience with this aspect of The Code, we must look back a few years. Run the clock back to the Christmas season, 1979. At the time I was in the final year of a three-year sentence in the penal institution known as high school, and had a job in the Woolco in Cedar Falls selling guns and fishing tackle, which for me was as close to a dream job as I was likely to find with the skills and experience I had to offer at the time. Woolco, for those of you who aren’t familiar with the chain, was sort of the Wal-Mart of the day, being the big discount store chain of the F.W. Woolworth company.
The greatest thing about working for Woolco was the employee Christmas parties. Every year, the company rented the clubhouse of a big nearby apartment complex, and had a couple of kegs brought in. My fellow employees generally showed up with a few bottles as well, so there would be no small amount of comestibles. Given the 2-1 ratio of female to male employees and the free booze involved, my old friend Dave generally was anxious to take the place of my allowable +1 to the party.
Such was the case on a fateful December Friday in 1979.
As was usually the case, the evening proceeded liquidly. The trouble began with the disappearance of one kid, let’s call him Kevin, a seventeen-year-old who worked part-time selling shoes. Our involvement began when one of Kevin’s co-workers came to Dave and me a half-hour after midnight with a dilemma.
“We can’t find Kevin,” she said. “Nobody’s seen him for a while now.”
“Is that the kid from Shoes?” Dave asked me. “He was pretty drunk last I saw him.”
“That’s him,” the young lady asked. “We’re a little bit worried. Can you guys check the men’s room?”
Dave and I generally moderated our intake in these deals, hoping to score some entertainment more scintillating than booze, so we were still in pretty good shape. Agreeing to the search, we proceeded to the men’s room. Kevin wasn’t at any of the urinals or sinks, so we started checking stalls; I was on my second when I heard Dave loudly exclaim, “Oh, shit!”
I walked over and took a look. Kevin had passed out on the toilet, his pants around his ankles. A trail of vomit ran from his mouth, down his front, to form a puddle in his pants.
“What are we gonna do with him?” Dave asked.
“Better take him home,” I said. “I know where he lives.” Kevin’s jacket was hung on a hook on the back of the stall door, so I checked the pockets. “Yeah, here are his car keys.”
The actual by-gosh Woolco.
We didn’t bother trying to clean Kevin up. Instead, we got him stood up and squidged his jeans up, fastening his belt around his waist. To get him out of the clubhouse and into his car required enlisting the help of a couple of my fellow employees, but finally Kevin was in the back seat of his old Chevy, smelling of puke and breathing out eye-watering tequila fumes.
Dave had driven us to the party, so it was up to me to navigate Kevin’s old Chevy the three miles to his parent’s house. The night was cold, as is usual for northern Iowa in December, but the odors emanating from the back seat made it necessary to drive with the window open and my head positioned to take the blast of cold, yet clean air. Dave followed me in his old Cougar.
On arrival at Kevin’s parent’s house, we did a quick recon from the street. “Looks like everyone’s asleep,” Dave observed.
“Yeah. Let’s get him out of the car.”
I had parked right in front of Kevin’s suburban home, so we had only to leverage his inert form out of the car and bundle him up the sidewalk to the front door. There, only a little experimentation found the right key to open the front door. We stood Kevin up, slapped him until he roused a little, and gave him a push. The kid staggered into the front door and collapsed into the entryway, where another round of heaving seized him.
“Let’s go,” Dave whispered. I tossed Kevin’s keys inside, closed the door and rang the bell. Then we ran for Dave’s Cougar and returned to the party, which was still going in full force.
I next saw Kevin on Monday afternoon, when he wandered into the Woolco for his part-time evening shift selling shoes. Curious, I wandered over from Sporting Goods to Shoes to see how he was doing.
Kevin looked awful. His face still had a faint green tinge, and his eyes looked like two piss-holes in the snow. “I hear you got me home Friday. Thanks.”
“Glad to help,” I told him. “What happened after that?”
Kevin grimaced. “My folks yelled at me all weekend. Basically, I’m grounded for the rest of my life.”
I sympathized with him and walked back to my department. Hopefully he learned a lesson from the experience; for my part, The Code was satisfied.
And Then This Happened
Of course, there are certain cases in which it’s not necessary to get a guy delivered to him home; for instance, if you can deliver him to a sober family member, that’s just as good. Case in point: Fast forward thirty years, and I find myself in Japan, back on my first stint in that lovely country.
In case you didn’t know, drinking is a big part of social life in Japan. On the occasion in question, to celebrate this hiring of several staff in the Quality department, the company I was working with sponsored a big Friday evening dinner in a traditional local restaurant, where the food was great and the beer, sake and shochu flowed freely.
In the course of the meal, I became aware of some odd behavior on the part of my primary counterpart with the company, my “factory buddy.” Let’s call him Takagawa-san. Takagawa-san had taken it on himself to repeatedly fill my glass whenever it was empty; out of politeness, I was doing the same for him. Throughout the night he became increasingly unsteady, but I recognized the challenge; he was, as the saying goes, ‘seeing if he could drink me under the table.’
Takagawa-san’s plan went awry for two reasons: I was approximately twice his size, and second, unbeknownst to him, I had been imbibing a wide variety of alcoholic beverages, some store-bought, some not, since I was about fourteen.
In the end, we all left for the train station, with me half-carrying, half-dragging the nearly comatose Takagawa-san. I managed to get him on the train and, holding him up with one arm and holding the strap with the other, cudgeled my brain as to how to figure out where he lived. I knew he got off the train on the normal commute at the stop before mine, but that was the extent of my knowledge.
I shook him as the train started moving. “Takagawa-san,” I told him. “Where do you live? Where’s your house?”
He took out his cell phone, causing me to breathe a sigh of relief, thinking he was going to bring up some kind of mapping app. Instead, he started scrolling through photos with a wide, drunken smile plastered on his face. “My son,” he grinned at me. “My wife.”
It was apparent there would be no relief from that quarter, so when Takagawa-san’s stop came, I got him off the train and headed out of the station, hoping some opportunity would present itself. One did.
Once again, I was half-dragging, half-carrying my inebriated Japanese counterpart up the sidewalk when I noticed a young woman walking towards us, with a small boy holding her hand. As she drew closer, I recognized her from the photos on Takagawa-san’s phone. “Ah!” my comrade blurted out, pointing at the young lady. “My wife!”
As she drew closer, Mrs. Takagawa’s gaze narrowed like Swiss Servator contemplating a string of puns. As her face darkened, I patted Takagawa-san on the back. “Ok, buddy, you’re good, then. See you Monday!”
I fled, making it back to the station just in time to catch the last train to my hotel.
Once again, Monday found me seeking out a friend to see how his weekend had gone. I found Takagawa-san at his desk in the plant, cradling his head in his hands. When I asked how he was, he looked up at me blearily, and sucked in his breath through his teeth.
“Oh,” he said. “Weekend was not good. My wife, very angry.”
I patted him on the back and sympathized. After all, that, too, is part of The Code.
These Days
The Code still applies, of course, but these days it doesn’t affect me much. I don’t often go out partying with buddies and, on the rare occasions I do, us older guys usually don’t drink enough to require someone else getting us home safe. The cautions on how to behave with regards to your buddies’ ex-girlfriends and dating don’t really apply much either – not to me, that is.
But were the situation to arise, I’d still have to abide by The Code. If you’re drinking with someone and he gets too many sheets to the wind – get him home safe.
It’s The Code.
“Weekend was not good. My wife, very angry.”
A damn near-universal experience, if you ask me.
The Code includes such cautions as “do not seek to score with your buddy’s ex-girlfriend,” “wash your truck before picking up a girl for a first date,”
These are good rules.
The greatest thing about working for Woolco was the employee Christmas parties. Every year, the company rented the clubhouse of a big nearby apartment complex, and had a couple of kegs brought in. My fellow employees generally showed up with a few bottles as well, so there would be no small amount of comestibles. Given the 2-1 ratio of female to male employees and the free booze involved, my old friend Dave generally was anxious to take the place of my allowable +1 to the party.
I wonder when these died out. My older brother worked at Woolworth’s for a while and never went to an employee Christmas party.
The ratio is good.
I remember when they ended at Oscar Mayer. in Madison, WI. Sometime around 1970, after one of the executive’s wives came in on a Monday and fired a shotgun into the ceiling of her husband’s office after it was reported he was getting it on at the Christmas party with one of the secretaries.
At a big name defense contractor I used to work at, I heard epic stories from older timer co-workers of drinking and debauchery at their Christmas parties during the 70s. The parties didn’t survive into the 80s.
My first job out of college I had the task of scanning and organizing historic photos for the company I was working for (small Caterpillar Dealership). The Christmas Party photos from the mid 50’s opened my eyes to thinking that people in that time were more buttoned up and repressed than my own time. Every picture I scanned in had an HR violation in it.
The Code must be honored. While there may be disagreement about its demands in particular circumstances, The Code must still be honored.
To violate it is akin to violating the Law of Surprise (from The Witcher) – violators do so at the peril of Fate, knowing they risk karmic condemnation for egregious violations of The Code.
But were the situation to arise, I’d still have to abide by The Code. If you’re drinking with someone and he gets too many sheets to the wind – get him home safe.
Yes.
Good story!
As my friend put it, “The Japanese really like drinking but they are not very good at it”.
(TBF, it’s more like they aren’t naturally built for it).
I admire their tenacity in the face of biological limitations.
Winds picking up. Power flickering quite a bit (and with it my wifi). A few more branches visibly down but not quite as large. Probably go out around 3:30 to start shoveling.
I have given and received in this regard.
Most noticeably, some crewmates returned my obliterated body to our boat moored in the middle of a Bermuda harbor after a very unfortunate and ill advised night in the bars regaining my land legs.
Notably, not noticeably.
I guess it works anyway.
I taught my kids the Code. No leaving anyone behind.
Fun stories, Animal!
“When drinking with another guy, if he gets too shitfaced, you are responsible for getting him home safe.”
a) make sure it is the correct house.
b) make sure they make it inside
https://www.bemidjipioneer.com/news/2489504-university-minnesota-duluth-frostbite-victim-get-robotic-hand
I remember that. I was so pissed off.
I’m trying to figure out what mad you mad:
a) That she was left outside to get frostbite?
b) That doctors are playing doG and replacing her hand and thwarting evolution?
c) That your wife doesn’t have a robot hand that can exude lubricant and vibrate?
A, for sure. And now that you bring it up, C.
I’d put C in the same category as self-driving cars. In theory I love the technology, but in practice I am still too leery of the safety of said technology to fully trust it.
*imagines Mojo transcribing THAT medical “de-gloving” report*
?
You know I would tell you ALLLLLLLLL about it, too.
These are so great – I am really looking forward to the book.
My 30th birthday coincided with a Friday and a company lunch to celebrate a bid delivery. So lunch was many margaritas. Not much work got done in the afternoon. So we broke early and headed across the street for tequila shots and free nachos. By 5 pm, I needed to head home and get take care of supper for the kids.
My coworkers asked if I was really able to drive. I said “You tell me”. They said no, and a couple of them drive me home and got my car back too.
Supper was pizza hut delivery. Once the pizza arrived, we turned on the TV and found The Wizzard of Oz. That story takes on a new meaning after tequila shots. Fuck those flying monkeys.
The worst of drinking early is waking up at 1 am hungover.
Waking up, still drunk and vomiting, at 1am.
Huh, that was after tequila myself… which I avoided for about 10 years.
I’m trying to think of a time that I was drunk but NOT drunk at 1 am.
robc’s Tequila theory: It never leaves the body, it just picks up where you left off.
I and my friends followed the code as well. The popular method for a severely inebriated person is what is know in these parts as the coal miner’s funeral. You get the person home, if they have keys we do what you did in the Woolco story, if not you prop them up by or in the screen door and ring the bell or knock loudly for a minute or so until you see lights come on. You then run to the car and honk or burnout and GTFO.
This was how the mine used to deliver bodies to the family back in the bad old days of deep anthracite mining.
Sorry to be a bit OT, but I noticed in the early morning lynx that there was some talk about AOC’s tweet calling out a “missing” Desantis.
I didn’t see any links to the reason he hasn’t been doing any public events, so I thought I’d bring it up.
I’m sure the apologies/retractions will be forthcoming.
AOC will feel differently once her boyfriend gets cancer of the feet. At least until she dumps him.
Seriously, though, how low can you go?
Is there anything in the code about not allowing or not caring about drunk driving?
When I was a kid learning to drink, drunk driving was more like speeding. Get you a ticket and a strong lecture, but that was about it.
MADD mothers were just becoming a thing, but were mostly viewed as bunch of busy body Karens. Jokes were made about DAMM (Drunks Agains Madd Mothers).
Almost every guy in my high school probably had a story about being drunk and being caught by the cops. Most of the time it was a stern lecture and being let go with an order to go straight home. Beer was confiscated, etc.
One night my buddy and I got caught with some beer and were a bit tipsy driving around doing nothing. I was driving and the cops took our beer and followed us home (my buddy lived up the block from me) with their lights on (but no siren). My dad was the probation/parole officer for the area and my buddy’s dad was the chief public defender. From the months of daily lectures I got at dinner, I guess the morning coffee session was pretty epic with the cops laughing and laughing.
In the mid ’90s when drunk driving had become a Very Bad Thing, I had a buddy get completely screwed over by the new repeat drunk driving laws.
As a kid he had gotten 4 DWI tickets in high school (late ’70s, early ’80s). Well in the mid-’90s he was driving home and got a flat. As he is fixing it a cop pulls up to make sure he is OK. Cop smells alcohol on his breath and breathalizers him and he goes at .09.
So now he is 5 time loser. Luckily he got a good lawyer and managed to avoid prison time. But it cost him a ton of money and a lot of hassles.
On the upside, he discovered that AA meetings were an awesome place to meet women who liked to fuck. The guy got laid often and repeatedly by gals he met at the meetings he was attending in order to get a more lenient sentence.
On the upside, he discovered that AA meetings were an awesome place to meet women who liked to fuck.
It is known. It’s the available vice at that point.
I believe it’s frowned-upon to start banging the newly sober, as they’re very vulnerable at that point (“The 13th Step”)
That’s part of the “get him home safe” rule.
what is the position on drawing dicks on faces if the home is reached safely?
Optional but encouraged if they’re not living with their parents.
I never have.
My step dad got rear-end by a drunk driver while he was driving tractor. He still has back problems
My swimming coach ran his Mustang into somebody’s bedroom and broke his own neck.
I drank but I never drove drunk.
I don’t think it should be a crime until you hurt someone, but I also think it is reckless.
No blood; no foul.
Ditto. And if you’re unaware of the consequences by now, legal or otherwise, you shouldn’t be operating your own shoelaces, let alone a motor vehicle.
In 2021 I started a new job with one of my offices in Allamakee County. The Christmas party was somewhat similar. I was fortunate enough to not be on either side of The Code.
Having gotten to know the people that I work with a little more, I would not doubt that every single one of them would honor it. It’s a good place to be.
Excellent story.
Variation on the Code:
16 YO me finds himself at friends house one evening with a few other yutes. Friend’s parents are out for the night, cards are dealt, liquor cabinet is raided, one clueless individual chugs a fifth of sloe gin and proceeds to pass out after vigorously attempting to hump the floor. ‘Round midnight, it is time to leave before the folks get home, what are we to do with Alex? Solution: Dump him into a red wagon which is then left in an empty lot down the block. Somehow, I know this is not right and after the others leave I drag the cart to my house, sneak into the garage, and manage to get Alex into the bed in the guest room at 1:30 AM. Of course Mom wakes up, looks at Alex and sternly reprimands me for not putting a blanket on him. She rectifies this and off to bed we go.
Alex’s parents knock on the door about an hour later and claim their charge; he was from that moment on forbidden to associate with me since I clearly was responsible for corrupting their little angel. No good deed goes unpunished.
“…a fifth of sloe gin…”
*retches just reading about sloe gin*
I made a decent one, the key is no sugar and just one tablespoon of honey per liter of gin
A friend of my husband, and thus also of me, got dumped by his wife. We had met at a bar for drinks to console him, but it was evident he was going to get very, very shitfaced. I drove his truck to our house, and husband drove his inebriated ass in our car.
Once safely ensconced at our home, we dutifully kept him (and us) drinking and listening to stories. He even tried playing guitar and singing. It seemed to take his mind off things. He was sitting in our comfy wingback chair when he rather abruptly passed out. Then I saw he had peed himself.
Husband managed to lug him along to bed, depants him, provide new undies, and then tossed the jeans, undies, and chair cover into the laundry.
When the guy woke up the next morning, he must have known something had happened because he was wearing borrowed underwear and had his own stuff newly washed and nicely folded on the guest room dresser.
He never asked; we never told. It’s the Code.
You have a wonderful narrative style, Animal.
I involuntarily read it in Sam Eliot voice in my head.
jeans, RCS (Red Cowboy Shirt), tooled boots, big belt buckle and big white gus-crown cowboy hat – I have to ask was this to get laid in japan or was it something you would normally wear?
When I moved to Texas, I was disappointed to discover that almost no one wears cowboy outfits.
Also there are absolutely no saguaro cactuses.
Of course there Ain’t No Saguaro in Texas.
It’s pretty much just my normal look. Except in winter, when I change the white hat for a brown or black one.
you need yourself trendier clothes to go proper clubbing
I think I’m good, thanks.
trendy – one of the most obscene words known to man
Well there is also Classi – South Park
It’s not so bad being trendy.
Everyone who looks like me is my friend.
I was on my second when I heard Dave loudly exclaim, “Oh, shit!”. I walked over and took a look. Kevin had passed out on the toilet, his pants around his ankles.
Apparently this is a thing. I had a half dozen or so close friends over for New Years my first year of college. I walked into the bathroom to find one of the girls completely naked and passed out on the floor. I yelled for the other girls, who got some clothes back on her and into a bed to sleep it off. Before though, they covered her face with Sharpie dicks and “enter here” signs going down her back and around her butt.
Everyone had a good laugh the next day, including the one who passed out. That wasn’t so long ago, but seems like a completely different era.
I distinctly remember receiving a panicked phone call from one girl in college about one of my housemates who was visiting her.
For some unknown reason he had consumed scrambled eggs and some suspect salsa for dinner then followed it up with liberal amounts of cheap Scotch.
The other housemate and I found him head in the sink, ass on the toilet, covered in Scotch-infused eggs and salsa, and almost comatose. He didn’t laugh the next day, but we did.
A different era indeed. No lawsuits, no claims of sexual assault that really were “I got drunk and now regret whatever I did.”
Things changed in the 90s when rufies became widespread. That shit crosses all sorts of lines. Getting yourself shitfaced on alcohol over a few hours is one thing and can be blamed only on yourself; having someone put a drug in your drink without you knowing it is entirely different. That’s a crime, and rape is the correct name for what usually happens next.
What happened to “Wake Up, Little Suzie” innocence?
It would be within the code, that if I ever caught some guy dropping a rufie in someone’s drink, to give his hand the Luca Brazi treatment.
I have a story along those lines, too.
Daily Mail is vicious to Biden today.
https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-10364665/Biden-boards-Air-Force-One-snow-Jen-Psaki-cancels-press-briefing.html
Is there anything that can’t be blamed on “climate change”?
https://www.breitbart.com/politics/2022/01/02/pennsylvania-democrat-commissioner-charged-raping-15-year-old-boy/
Maybe he can get a job at CNN.
Government at work.
There really does seem to be an evil correlation of seeking political power over the masses, and seeking sexual power over innocents who lack the ability to defend themselves.
Ick.
He should resign like Budd Dwyer.
Powerball is up to $540m.
if you win send me a bottle of good bourbon you will afford to
I’ll fly you over for a distillery tour.
I know in the military I helped my best bud many a times to at least his dorm room threshold. Never leave a man behind.
I didn’t realize Heroic Mulatto got a new gig:
https://pjmedia.com/instapundit/494841/
lulz
At this point, it’s more like a hobby.
One of those stories is very familiar, but involves alcohol consumption at a Dining Out.
Had to have the MP’s help a buddy and me one time in Okinawa.
My friend John and I took our girlfriends out to a Yakiniku restaurant.(You get raw marinated meat and cook it at a gas burner in the table) We were drinking beer with dinner. At the table next to us a group of Okinawans were playing a drinking game.
Put a glass of sake in front of Hiroshi. They say “3 claps for Hiroshi” and everyone claps 3 times. “3 more claps for Hiroshi” and everyone claps 3 more times. Then they start chanting “IKII, IKII, IKII, IKII!” while Hiroshi slams the drink.
John and I started clapping along. Next thing I knew there was a glass in front of me and it was “3 claps for Ron” “3 more claps for Ron” “IKII, IKII, IKII!” Then it went to John, then back to the Okinawans, then back to us.
Holy Shit, we got DRUNK.
My girlfriend (now my wife) was driving and dropped us off at the gate because Okinawans weren’t allowed on base after 10 pm. John and I were supporting each other and staggering towards the MP to show our ID cards and the MP flagged the girl’s car down. We were pissed and wondering why the MP’s were messing with our girls. The MP’s told them to take us to the barracks and leave base because “They aren’t gonna make it”. They were most likely correct.
Good times.
Fun stories Animal.
Actually a nice story from the MP.
(Okinawa dialect is roughly 1/3rd incomprehensible to me….)
We weren’t pissed once we figured out why they flagged her down.
The drinking reminds me of some stories my Chinese teacher would tell about living and working in Taiwan/HK/China for the previous 20 years. One was the business dinners where others would successively do drinks “one” on one with him as the sole foreigner. He’d rope his boss into it, “out of respect”, so every time he had one poured, he’d pour one for his boss. That cut down on the assault drinking.
Stopped snowing but Temps dropping as I try to get stuff shoveled. Nothings melting today. Hopefully tomorrow when the sun comes out even if the high is only 39.
I knocked most of the big chunks off the car and cleared a little around the tires. Hoping the sun will help tomorrow. Walks (sidewalk and front walk) done, path down driveway done, back steps and front steps done, path from back door done. I’m tired. Normally we put cans out tonight. I figure mine can wait until next week.
Yeah, got my driveway done and a walk for my neighbors (old). Dang…I’m not 39 any more.
Won’t find out update on fridge delivery for tomorrow till after 6.
Take your fapping to the next level.
Look the “Hitachi Magic Wand” was designed only for shoulders.
Chinese millennials drink hard, like… for sport. They have a great drinking game with dice that involves raised stakes/forced bluffing in successive rounds.
As epic as anything I ever did when I was a Marine pilot on libo with an entire BLT and Air element across the Med in the mid-90s.
It’s probably good for my liver that tour of duty ended.
I went on a few benders going into and out of Afghanistan in some weird places that occasionally got dicey. Probably not smart, but… we do these things. I’m sure Fourscore probably has several stories like that, as well, from SE Asia. But mebbe not, ‘cuz he is undoubtedly of much sterner moral fiber than my miscreant ass.
I’ve had a BLT and Avocado, but never BLT and Air. Is that some sort of molecular gastronomy thing? Like a BLT ground up, sonicated, and the resultant forced under pressure into a hot air stream?
It’s what breatharians eat.
Chevy offers window clings to prove customer Bolts have been serviced
I’m sure that will inspire confidence all around.
You can tell how disconnected the Chevy brass is from a big chunk of the country. They seem to think people only park in lots or garages with attendants.