Post-Modern Drunk: The Love of a Godly Man
I go down to the Local Cheap-Ass Chicken™ place for dinner, because I am single and now a slob again. As I am waiting for my cheap-ass chicken, a disheveled middle-aged man comes in and makes a beeline for me, the only guy there not behind a pane of bullet-proof glass.
"Pardon me, my man, can you loan me a dollar? Can you help a good Muslim brother out?" he asks, taking a drink from the can of beer in his hand.
"No, sorry."
"I just need a loan," he pleads.
"Oh, a loan. That's different," I don't say. "No," is, again, all I say.
"Fuck you, my man. I hope you die on your way home."
"Yessir," I agree. I do not say all the things I am thinking.
I get my chicken. I go home. I do not die on the way there.
