I walked into the bar alone.  Cinqo de Mayo fell on a week night, and no one was returning my calls.  Three feet through the door I ran into a kid I knew from around the neighborhood.

He turned small talk into a boring lecture about college.  Art school fag.  He moaned about being a walking cliche while I struggled to remember his name.  I eyeballed the bar nervously, more interested in a drink than anything he had to say.

“So, uh . . . where are all the hot, straight chicks?” Read more

The Rules are simple:

1. Don’t use coke.

2. If you use coke once, you’re a cokehead.

3. Never trust a cokehead.

She was not the prettiest woman I’ve been with, a middling 6 at best.  The way she dressed made matters worse – all jeans and sweaters – so I was pleasantly surprised when she peeled them off.  Her breasts were larger, her body curvier, than I expected.

What she lacked in curb appeal, she made up for under the hood.  Her sexual appetite was voracious.  Rodeo clowns aren’t this motivated . . . Read more

The Daily Inappropriation is dead.  Long live “The Fucking Inappropriation.”

Negotiations with the UAW have broken down.  That’s the Union of Alcoholic Writers; not to be confused with the United Auto Workers.

In our continued effort to grow the site we have decided to end the Daily.  Fear not, the Inappropriation lives on.  When forced to pick between quality and quantity, we decided that it was more important for the Inappropriation to be good than for it to be Daily.

This is for your own good.

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It didn’t even look like a bar from the outside.  A neon sign flickered in the window, but there was nothing over the door.  A few people stood outside smoking cigarettes.

We were on a poorly lit side-street in a bad neighborhood – the kind of place where drunks and prostitutes live in weekly rentals.

The bar was close quarters inside, full of hard drunks.  Punks.  Blue-collar labor.  Fist-fights waiting to happen.  One string of rope lights lit the whole place.  I could smell piss over the cigarette smoke.  My boots clung to the floor from spilled beer and old puke.

The bartender was a heavyset blonde.  She came down to us and pushed her big tits up on the bar.  She leaned forward, openly solicitous.

“What can I do for you guys?”

I ordered shots and beer.  She set three rocks glasses on the bar, pouring with a heavy hand.  I handed one to Hack, and picked up my own.  The bartender raised hers and toasted:

“To Honor . . .

“If you can’t come in her, come on her . . . “

She brought our beers.  I tried to hand her money but she shook her head.

-     –     -

My name is Max, and I’m looking for a good bad time.

Who is Fucking Inappropriate?

Who is Max?

We make fun of a lot of things here, but DWI is not one of them.

While drunken driving is a pretty stupid thing in the first place, the level of douchebaggery to which you are complicit elevates astronomically when you fuck up someone else’s shit. Of course, if you get in the vehicle with a drunk driver and die as a result then you’re the asshole.

A British man, Imran Hussain, was recently sentanced after killing a father and son in a drunk-driving incident. This is not the news – the circumstances under which it happened put him in the running for Douchebag of the Year*. More after the jump.

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Now that we’ve covered The Social Drinker, from kick-off to catastrophic failure, let’s look at how a professional holds their mud. An important fact to keep in mind: just because a habitual drinker’s perceived level may be different, to themselves and to others, does not mean they’re good to drive. In fact, they’re probably twice as bad as you think.

Habitual drinking changes your body at a cellular level. Cell membranes toughen, and your body learns to use alcohol for food. The first few drinks make you crisp, but it is all downhill from there.

* Author’s Note: We enjoy The Drink, here at FI. However, we do so responsibly. We are professionals, do not attempt this at home. Furthermore, we know better than to drive home. A chimp being attacked by a swarm of bees has a better chance of driving home safely. We have cab companies on speed dial.

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This segment is being done in two parts. Alcohol affects everyone differently. However, The Social Drinker (read: Teetotaling Sissy) will feel and behave much differently than a seasoned drinker. Since things vary heavily depending on bodyweight (and not all large people can hold their liquor), we’ll leave the levels based on blood concentration rather than number of drinks. Let’s start where it starts:

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