Twas the hallowed night of drunk's giving, when all through Central Philly, a pack of 30-somethings were

stirring, brimming glasses of something swilly. The preamps were modulated at Ice Station Zebra with care in hopes that St. Kitton's Marks soon would be there

Teens and aholes froliced with their redial standing by fighting to be one of a dozen

retards only planning to say hi. Perched atop a comforter sat the lady, elegant

and true poised to decipher typos made by assheads drunk on cans of frosty brew.

As the 8 p.m. Eastern live launch came, of course, something had to lock up. Johnny's shitbox and the mumbling racist each took this time to fill their cup.

8 o'clock turned to 805, 810 to 815. The listeners realized their parents were at home, pulled

their puds and flipped their beans. Eric tomorrow grew surly, put down a pabst and hiked his drooping draws, taking a long drag from a pea-funk.

He twitched his nose like Santa Claus.

Naturally this didn't do anything, so he cursed and rebooted the server,

penciling Shil4 donations on the show matrix

with an ecclesiastical fervor.

A random movie clip played in iTunes and the scene was set for hours of blather.

However, my main man, Matt, had pre-drunked, so he was already in a lather.

His cell phone clacked 100 times as he texted to and fro, witholoids across the hemisphere

who dreamt he was their special bro.

Ere as the night grew longer

and the East Coast air grew thick,

a juvenile said something moronic and Matt unleashed the dick.

The band of Mary Jokesters Gaffod 100-proof chuckles about a taser.

They were up to their ball sacks and donated whiskey.

Matt pewed and dropped his razor. Break one became two and three became five.

...