When I first decided to hop on a plane to Atlanta and party it up at New Year's with Dusty, I'm not sure what I was expecting. I guess I just figured I'd impulsively take a trip to somewhere I'd never been and hang out with someone I'd never met.

Sure, there was the promise of massive quantities of beer with a buddy that makes me laugh even when he's threatening me with violent sexual acts.

There was also the promise of teeming throngs of insanely hot women that Atlanta seems to grow from it's fabled "Hot Chick Groves", and the assurance that a fairly large sampling of them would be at a swanky-ass New Year's Eve party at some styling theatre.

Plus, me and Pork were going to be in full kilt get-up.

All of this sounded pretty good, and I was stoked about my trip.

Now that it's all over with I can truthfully say, without a shadow of a doubt, there was no way I could have ever prepared for the fact that I was going to experience what I've recently dubbed, "The Bestest Fucking Weekend of My Life."

The only way it could have possibly been better, is if I had spent the entire time sitting on a mountain of beef jerky, being pleasured orally by 27 virgins, while watching the entire series of Girls Gone Wild on endless loop.

If that had happened though I'd know that I was in fact, dead, and even though this would mean that I could wile away the days in Valhalla screaming nonsensical Gaelic with Thorfinn Hausakluif and drinking endless amounts of Scottish Ale, I wouldn't be able to tell any of you about it.

As it is, my trip to Atlanta provided me with enough material for a short novel, so I'm going to recall it in installments, starting with Day One.

Thursday night we headed to a quiet drinking establishment that you apparently need to be an ordained minister in the Church of Awesome to get into.

We began drinking heartily with Dusty's realtor, shooting the shit and trying to out-funny each other, when over came Anita, a cute, middle-aged, blonde chick who was humorously drunk. She made a brave effort at telling us the story of "Psycho Lee and the Car Thieves" but couldn't seem to get past the first five sentences because she made the mistake of attempting to tell this story to three mildly inebriated wise-asses.

Any drunk chick that tries to tell a story to quick-witted jackwads, who have already been busting on each other for a good hour or so, would have to possess a saintly amount of patience to keep herself from smacking us repeatedly in the mouths with her shoe. Bless her li'l drunk heart, Anita made it farther into the story than I would have ever guessed.

However, a simple slip of her tongue turned "horse-minder" (someone who takes care of horses) into "horse-mimer" (a mime who is obviously retarded, insane, or a Monty Python fan). After 5 solid minutes of the three of us pawing wildly at the air, soundlessly snorting, eating out of imaginary feed-bags, and trying to break out of our invisible stalls, Anita gave up at her story and left to fetch her husband, Psycho Lee, so that he could tell it himself.

Any attempt that I could make right now to tell this story would do it zero justice, and would take hours to write and to read. I won't even try right now and instead defer to the Porcine One, but hopefully someday it will be an animated short film, and will receive numerous awards and accolades.

I've never been to that part of the South before and so far had only met Dusty and Realtor, who don't really have accents or "Southern" affectations. Psycho Lee was everything I could have asked for had I told the waitress, "One Georgia Redneck, straight up, please." From his good-ol'-boy accent, to his Rock-a-billy greased pompadour, lamb-chop sideburns, and straight-out-of-GraceLand Elvis smile, I was already thoroughly entertained.

When he came up to the table, I half expected him to unroll a pack of Lucky's from his shirtsleeve while he rested his side-buckle, black, leather boots on the nearest stool and proceed to tell me about drag-racing his '57 Chevy.

Instead, he launched into his story with an explanation that he always carries his gun with him because he has to shoot any snakes that he comes across while walking the dog, as they scare his wife.

I think it's only fair to mention that he doesn't just haphazardly kill the snakes, oh no. He catches them first, and then lets them go. If they don't "run" away as fast as they can, he assumes they aren't scared of him and therefore won't run away from his easily-frightened wife. THEN he shoots them.

I think it's also fair to mention that Psycho Lee and Anita don't live in some backwoods Georgia swamp, but somewhere inside of Atlanta's City Limits.

I don't know much about that city, but I have nothing but the greatest of interest in any place where I might be able to catch a glimpse of Elvis, walking his dogs, catching snakes, dropping them, screaming at them to "Git," and then blasting them into oblivion when they don't.

Realtor warned me that Psycho Lee was crazy, and I took it to mean he was a "fun" kind of crazy. After hearing him tell his story, I learned that he really is a "fun" crazy, it's just a "fun-until-he-shoots-you-in-the-cheek-before-jumping-in-front-of-a-bus" kind of crazy, though.

When he finished and I told him this, his reply was, "Nah man, I'm sane. You gotta be crazy to be sane in an insane world."

This was priceless, if for no other reason than when he said the word, insane, it came out, IN-sayn.

The evening marched on, Pyscho Lee and Anita went home (in their busted-out-windows Honda... not a Chevy after all), Realtor threatened to go home to his preggo-ready-to-pop wife at least 17 times and came back to our table drunker after each time, and I got a kiss and a free shot from the hot female bartender (Yeah, I felt the need to specify her gender, I know where you smartasses would go with that).

By the time Dusty admitted that he was having full-on conversations with himself in the bathroom mirror about how much more he should (or rather should NOT) be drinking, and I was busting out Travolta-like moves with Realtor on the dance floor, it was undoubtedly time to go home.

On the walk back to his place, Dusty reminded me that not only is a good, greasy breakfast a great idea after drinking your weight in beer, but that he also lives in the Nexxus of the Awesome Universe and a classic Greasy Spoon was but a half-block out of our way.

We settled in and spent the next 40 minutes waiting for our omelettes while having slurred conversations with the other drunkards surrounding us. Right before we had mutually decided that we were going to venture behind the counter and start cooking our own fucking food, it arrived. I tasted grits for the second time in my life, and announced loudly to the cafe that I do indeed "love me somma dem grits."

After continuing back on our way to sweet Passing-Out-Oblivion, I got to meet yet another in the evening's string of colorful characters, one of Atlanta's Finest Unlabored Capitalists. First, our new friend wondered aloud if the large, yellow, mini-van nearby belonged to us. I realize this would have made sense, were we a pair of flambouyantly gay carpet cleaners, but no such luck for our dredlocked compadre. As we walked past the van, he wisely ignored the glaring Dusty in favor of the gleefully drunken Me.

"Hey man, can you help a bruthah out?"

"Maybe, whaddya need?" hoping his reply involved him being pushed in front of a bus.

"Meeehhhnn, I been workin' haahdd..." Plaintive tone that already has me digging a dollar from my pocket (SUCKER!)

"Hey, good for you, good luck with that." Attempting to walk around his cloud of stench.

"It's haahhdd goddam wook gettin' sumptin to eat around here..." greedily snatching dollar from my hand.

"NO SHIT, " clapping hand on his shoulder, "I totally know what you mean, I just spent 45 fuckin' minutes waiting for a goddam omelette!"

As I unfolded the couch, it became apparent that Dusty clearly felt that I owed him something in return for his hospitality. Even though he said he "only wanted to be held," I knew he was expecting more, and I think I know why.

I'd been there for fewer than 8 hours, and Queasy was already in love with me as well as my luggage.

She made no attempt to hide her efforts at trying to gain my affections, as she's a whore just like her daddy.

Seriously, for all of you out there that think Dusty is this kick-ass guy who lives just about the awesomest life you could imagine, you're absolutely right.

And, in reality, he didn't really make any passes at me, which was somewhat disappointing for as drop-dead sexy as I was in that kilt.

I'll cover Day Two and the New Year's Party, complete with pictures, soon.

Til then, be good, and watch out for deer.