Stuff by Cher: Firewater Friday . . . Rocks you like a hurricane

Once upon a time, about 20 years, ago there was a young girl. She was cute and petite and rather naive. At a festive event she paired up with a fellow merrymaker to share a celebratory concoction . . . or ten or fifteen or who knows how many. In her innocence she thought she could keep up a drinking pace with a person easily three times her size. This young girl and her drinking buddy toasted drink after drink and got merrier and merrier. The jollity went on and on until the gaiety was interrupted by a sudden thud; the commotion being her butt hitting the floor upon her sliding off her stool in a most ungraceful manner.

Discomfited, she fled the gathering to a waiting coach. On the journey home, she rested her head against the cool glass of the window and . . . uhm . . . hoarked most of the merriement she had enjoyed into her lap; turning her party dress a lovely shade of pink . . . the party dress, the seat upon which she sat, the back of the seat in front of her and anything else unfortunate enough to be in close proximity.

Somehow she ended up in her bed, freshly showered and in clean garments.

She awoke the next morning feeling like she had been rocked by a hurricane. In a way she had been.

The moral of this quaint tale is . . . don’t be stupid.

To further bring the lesson home . . . the cute, petite, naive girl had to literally take a garden hose to the interior of said coach to remove the vile pink bile from the vehicle's pile. The car . . . er . . . coach never smelled the same and served as a constant reminder of the wretched retch-ed-ness.

Here endeth the lesson.

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Let’s get rocked!