PSYCHALCOHOLOGICAL

It's 11:45 PM, and there's a six-pack of Rolling Rock with your name on it. After driving through the sweet Virginia breeze, you notice that the store clocks are past midnight. Your watch reads 11:50. The cashier tells you that beer sales ceased five minutes ago. Damn it!

Not wanting to spend $100 for a Budweiser, you shun the Quik-E-Mart and speed to another grocery store. The prices are extra low and so is your time. Brew in hand, you head to the register. Preparing to give the stubble-faced woman your dinero, she spits out, "May I see two ID's?" You're good for the driver's license, but your Social Security card has been AWOL since '91. The library, video, and bowling league cards don't cut it. "Well, don't you have a military ID?" the lady inquires. Unaware that one has to be in the Armed Services to have a beer or close haircut, you walk out of the store shouting, "This sucks" or some variation thereof.

Next door at the local watering hole, you order a small pitcher of Miller Lite. Coughing up $3.50 (tip included), you head over to the dartboard. This dude wants to know if you'd like to play cricket. You tell him that your wickets are at home. He doesn't get the joke. Playing for a pitcher, you hold your own throwing $1.00 darts against his $75.00 ones. Eventually, you lose and have to buy beer you can't drink. Listening to him babble about some wanker guitarist ("Go see the son-of-a-bitch"), you decline his invitation to a country go-go joint. Nursing the remainder of your pitcher, Mr. Bartender recites that god-awful cry: "LAST CALL FOR ALCOHOL!!!" Not in the mood to pick up any 56-year-old women, you head out the door.

Cruising down Kempsville Road and singing an acapella-punk version of a Whitney Houston song, you are pulled over by Smokey. He requests the usual (license and registration). Another two ID's.