The Pint Glass

This story is in dedication to a Mr. Charlie Shackelford. Mr. Shackelford had the wonderous (or not so wonderous) experience of having his girlfriend's 21st birthday the evening of last. Knowing the state that any man must be in to care for his sick girlfriend (namely: rediculously drunk), I attempt to coerce Charlie into joining me in such a state. We take a shot of bourbon before leaving for the bar, and Charlie makes quite the face. I ask him if he likes whiskey, he says "yeah of course." I think nothing of it. We go to the bar. A drink or two later, the point in the evening comes to have our meeting with the Three Wise Men. Charlie makes the comment how he doesnt see how this could taste any different from any other whiskey shot. I think nothing of it. We cheers the shot glasses and take down Jim, Jack, and John. I savor the subtle aftertaste of the Johnnie Walker and glance over at Mr. Schackelford, just in time to see him empty the contents of the shot, and the remainder of his stomach, into a pint glass sitting in front of him. I say, "I thought you liked whiskey." He answers, "Yeah, but I've only had one type of whiskey and I liked it." I ask him what type. "Southern Comfort."

Shenanigans.