Face Down at the White Horse

Do you want to know what's fun? Campfires on the beach.

Want to know what's funny? Johnny, a couple dozen beers into beachy-campfire goodness, trying to wander off into the dark to have a quiet pee. He can't get his beach legs, keeps losing his footing and toppling into the sand with every step. With every step. Step left, fall to the left. Much turtley scrambling. Step right, fall to the right. More turtley scrambling. Repeat, ad infinitum.

But you know what's not fun? Trying to help him and getting taken down yourself. Repeat, sand in-Erin's-bum.

And, last but not least, do you know what isn't funny? When -- the above mission somehow finally accomplished -- Johnny discovers that he's lost his matches and decides to light a cigarette directly from the blaze. He's got the damn butt in his mouth and he's bent over with his sand-scraped face inching dangerously towards the flames, when Gerry suddenly notices what he's up to and grabs him by the seat of his pants.*

So the moral of this story is: it pays to practice drinking a lot even after you have kids. You never know when those parental instincts might get called into play.



*Needless to say, this is also more or less how Johnny managed to get back to the beach house that night: with Gerry's help, and by the seat of his pants.