I say my limit is two beers because, and this is the first thing that pops to mind, after that my judgements is impaired in that I will have another, and another, check my watch for the time i started drinking and reason that the previous drinks (beers) have burned out, and continue drinking. Fuck that.
That is a lie, but if you've followed me, then you know my life is built on lying to myself. That's why this is news. Bladder control, and I'll leave it at that.
When I purchased my package to Sturgis, i actually considered opting for the personalized port-a-potty, because I've had incidents happen while drinking. Get the idea?
Moving on. I'm an alcoholic. Hi, my name is Henry. Have you ever noticed how peeing yourself is liberating? It is America, land of the free, after all. And now with adult diapers, less people have to find out. That's not to say that my personal collection of drawers contain any relies, or whatever they're called these days. I still buy the comfy boxer shorts that have cute pictures on them.
What in the world would posses me to reveal such personal info? Recently I've been obsessing over the books that have been written about the Hell's Angels. In one of them, i recall an incident in which some bikers arrive in Vegas. They are there to meet a big mafia boss, but the parking attendant/doorman/security comes out to announce to them that they would have to remove their colors before they would be allowed to enter the casino. One Angel replies with 'I would rather shit my pants right here before I take my vest off!'
So sorry. I forgot to mention, on my way back home (from Rte 66), the last mile on the freeway, there is a dip that really jolts you if you are unaware of it on a motorcycle, my freaking portable charger flies out of my breast pocket. A $50 accessory. I thought of doubling back and trying to pick it up. Heh-heh, in preparation for my upcoming vacation I even etched my name into it. Mofo!