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Holy Christ - speaking of Denny's . . .
So we make the trip from Iowa down to San Antonio, to live the dream (think: Lifesaver) and get really really wasted while watching the Iowa Hawkeyes pound the piss out of Texas Tech (yeah, that's how it went . . . sorta). Anyway, one night we have a few too many bourbons on the riverwalk, and end up wandering all over hell. Me and my buddy, we'll call him "Jerry", want to eat - no one else does, so we hit up Denny's by ourselves at about 3am.
We order, do our deal - and Jerry promptly passed the f- out. Dead out - no one can wake him, not me, not the waitress, not the random NASCAR fans in the other booth. Now it's hysterical - I'm sitting there by myself, eating pancakes and watching Jerry snore. Too funny . . .
. . . until wiseass wakes up. At which point, he decides it's a perfect time to puke all over the table, the floor, and all the way to the bathroom.
Except he can't find the bathroom, and walks back into the kitchen thinking it's the bathroom, at which point the waitress walks him back into the middle of the restaurant. He then looks around, shakes his head, and walks out the front door. I pay the bill real fast (HUUUUUGE tip) and bounce out, to find him puking on a Prelude next to the Marriott, with a US Park Ranger laughing his ass off at him. We head back, and never talk about it ever again, at all.
If life were ESPN, this would have been an Instant Classic - you'd have seen it the next weekend in primetime.
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