-To me, true success is not marked by scoring that big promotion or landing that sweet apartment, it’s whether you can still stay out until last call.  I think that shutting down the bar is like the triathlon of twentysomething life – you need to have the money to spend, the ability to drink, and the stamina to stay awake until 4am.  Last call is also a great time to meet chicks.  After all, what’s a better time to pick up women than when they’re poor, drunk, and tired?

-I’ve noticed that you have to be really vigilant at the bar these days, otherwise the busboy, waitress, or bartender will swipe your drink away before you’re even finished.  And they always hold the bottle up to the light to see how much is left before handing it back to you with a smirk.  Hey, I paid eight bucks for this fucking beer.  If I want to lick the moisture off the side of the bottle and then eat the label, I think that’s my prerogative.

-Drunk guys sure like to exaggerate.  I was out boozing when the Pacers-Pistons brawl broke out last week, so over the course of the night I heard a series of accounts of what happened from several increasingly inebriated guys.  By the time I got home, my understanding was that the incident lasted three and a half hours, the fans and Pacers had engaged in West Side Story-style choreographed fight sequences, and Ron Artest had invaded Iraq.

-I have friends who, when I call to see if they’re ready to go out, always say something like, “Yeah, I’m just putting a shirt on.”  Yet, somehow, they don’t show up for forty-five minutes.  Unless “putting a shirt on” is the new slang for beating off and taking a shower, in which case I’m way out of the loop.