The pussy shot

I did a show this weekend in Michigan.  I couldn’t have asked for a better show, other than the fact it was a super long drive.  I had to bust out the history podcasts and some of those are just awful.  Everyone has their soulless NPR monotones as they talk about antebellum American history or whatever the flavor of the day is.  I love history stuff though, plus I found a station on XM that plays replays of murder trials, so that was nice.

At the show, I did very well and the headliner, B.T., was a great guy I have worked with before – very funny and probably the only black NASCAR fan north of Kentucky.  I hung out to watch the UFC fight at the bar, but cut myself off, due to the fact Ohio plates and drinking is probably not a great combo in Michigan, the state that collectively hates Ohio’s guts.

One of the guys at the show offered to buy me a shot.  No thanks, I have to drive.  “C’mon, your hotel is right down the road.”  Good point, but I shouldn’t.  “I’ll drop you off.”  No, you don’t have to, I’m fine.  “OK, I’ll get you a pussy shot.”  OK…wait a minute…  He walked up to the bar and brought back the dreaded pussy shot.  Some sweet tasting 4 proof Pucker garbage.  I wasn’t turning down the actual shot aspect for the taste – I drink Scotch and Bourbon on the rocks, I turned it down to avoid spending a week in Middle of Nowhere County jail.  Oh well, I’m a vagina boy to this guy now…might as well drink my Pantyhose Pounder or whatever in the hell he bought me and walk to the hotel with what limited manhood I have left.