chris-littlechild - December 27, 2012
Yes indeed, gentlemen. There was nary an acceptable blood-alcohol level to be found among the Christmas-celebrating legions yesterday, and rightly so. Perhaps you have the caliber of hangover that suggests Satan himself has shat in your skull (or, indeed, moved in there for the morning with his pneumatic drill and an assorted array of heavy-duty power tools. He may be fabricating himself a tiny, tiny summerhouse half-an-inch above your eyeballs or something. He is, as we know, an ass like that.).
Conversely, you might have awoken to find that someone has taken a shit in the middle of your carpet, or that guy from work who came over last night is sprawled, limbs akimbo, in your hall in an unsanitary puddle of his own piss and/or turkey-vomit.With no pants on.
For us, thus far, that's check, check and check again.)
Nevertheless, there's always some poor bastard in a more woeful, death-imminent condition than yourself. Peruse the gallery, then, to heed the drunken counsel of gaming's alcoholics.