Friday morning, Dusty and I both woke up to the phone ringing and the startling realization that there are people in this world who just can't appreciate a good hangover.

Sadly, the both of us could only all too well.

Clearly, greasy Mexican food was called for.

The rare occasion arose that we couldn't actually walk to anything that was the bitchinsweetinest place to go, so we cruised the Highlands neighborhoods, checking to see what was in fact, open and ready for us.

I got to see some sights too, and more than once found myself gaping slack-jawed at that awesome city like the mountain hick that I am.

A mediocre meal, and one of the foulest restroom trips ever later, and we decided to stop at the beer store, to pick up the weekend supplies.

I was meandering brainlessly, as I tend to do in a liquor store, when Dusty told me that they had a "special room." Figuring this to be something sexual, or at least dealing with nudity and/or monkeys, I followed him into the Closet O' Imports. Being confronted with such a multitude of choices of beer temporarily overwhelmed me, and I was only brought back to my senses when I heard him exclaim, "Oh... oh, THIS is the one."

He pointed to a 4-pack on the top shelf, where my eyes fell on a Scottish Ale, nay, Fate in a Bottle...

He asks me, "Whaddya think? Should we try it?"

I replied, "Shit man, whether we do or not, we're going to be yelling that the whole weekend."

After grabbing the rest of the beer, and naturally the SKULLSPLITTER, I grabbed a bottle of Asti Spumanti, and we both agreed that the evening ahead of us probably warranted referencing the champagne with the operative word of "Spoo."

Screaming "SkullSplitter!" "Spoo!" and giggling childishly, we returned to Casa de Puerco and nursed away the rest of our hangovers with the only true cure...

More beer.

In that picture, I was apparently caught in mid-Al-Bundy, but I also caught Dusty on the phone with one of his numerous admirers.

We settled in and he put in a movie that I had previously never heard of, and now love more than my own mother.

It may only be because of the fact that I am from a similar rural-type area, or it may be because I a am complete fucking dork to this day, but Napoleon Dynamite was quite possibly the most brilliant movie I've ever seen.

If you haven't seen it, for the love of all that's JuddHoly, do so NOW.

If you have seen it, and you loved it like I did, then you'll always know what I'm flippin' talkin' about, GOSH!

If you have seen it, and you didn't like it, then please do me a favor. Grasp the outer edges of your keyboard in your hands, lean your head over it, and lift it upwards quickly, making abrupt and violent contact with your face.

Repeat this until you realize how awesome this movie is, and/or understand why I'm naming my first child, "Dynamite."

I laughed so hard that my sides hurt, and I had tears leaking from my eyes. Granted, uproarious laughter isn't the best thing for a pounding headache, but it was well worth it.

I woke from a nap to the Buttless Chap bounding into the joint to pick up the movie, so that he could bask in the pure genius that is Jared Hess.

I jumped into the shower while Dusty and his brother were scheming about something to do with "What's Under the Kilt," though I wasn't really paying attention. I scrubbed my Nether Regions good and heartily, as nothing says, "Love to my favorite D-Lander," like my pubic hair embedded in his soap.

When I got out, cologned up and smelling so goddam good that the kilt could only amplify my pure sexitude, I saw scattered across the living room several styles of Panty Hose, and Dusty and Buttless plotting even more feverishly than before.

Buttless took off for another party, so I became pulled into the project. I lent my considerable stitching skills (I'm a good li'l bitch like that) and, after a memorably awkward moment, we both marveled in the glory of the final results.

(Actual picture of Codename: Operation GigaDick, not available at this time)

Unfortunately, the damn thing didn't fit under the kilt, and poor Pork was forced to leave hanging that-which-God-gave-him. He was understandably apprehensive about this, never having worn a kilt before, but was placated by my repeated promises that "Chicks will look, they always look, and they're always impressed, doesn't matter what they find, as long as they look."

We had some time to kill before our dates showed up, as they are girls and apparently girls can never be ready on time, so we decided to "warm-up" Atlanta to the kilts, and walk to a local bar for a burger.

The second we stepped in the door, the music stopped, and every single head in that quiet pub turned, in unison, and stared.

And Stared.

We got a booth and ate our meals while, one by one, seemingly every drunken patron of that modest tavern came up to our table and asked such startlingly intelligent questions such as:

"So... where you boys headed? You in a band?"

"You goin' to a Scottish party, or what?"

"You boys play the bagpipes, or sumptin?"

Drunken Mongoloid Guy kept glaring at me intently, and I could tell that Dusty was starting to question the wisdom of wearing a kilt in Atlanta, as it seemed that a night full of headbutting and asskickery was surely in store for those that would fuck with us. We were going to be Splitting our share of Skulls for certain.

Mongoloid came over to the table and seemed overly interested in exactly where we were going and at what time we would be there. Though he prefaced the entire conversation by explaining how drunk he was and how he was only going to stay at that bar and get drunker, we were still a touch fretful that he may show up at the Fox Theatre later, and we would have to unceremoniously Split His Skull.

We went back to Pork's house and decided to christen the evening with that Sweet Essence of Badassery, a bottle each of Scotland's Finest.

In between shouts of "SKULLSPLIH-ER!!!" we regaled each other of the story on the side of the 4-pack, that explains all about Thorfinn Hausakliuf and what a complete Scottish-Norse-Ninja he was.

This guy is SO going into my next template design.

The phone rang, and our smokin-hot dates were on their way.

We were indeed ready for the evening ahead, but was it ready for the...

The redness of our eyes isn't because I've got a sub-standard camera, it's the pure Sexitudinal Awesomeness glowing from deep within our kilt-clad bodies.

It's barely containable, and a massive quantities of alcohol at a bitchincool New Year's Party would prove NOT equal to that task.

Our dates arrived, and I felt some anxiety about what kind of girl Dusty would hook me up with.

She knew what I looked like, but what does she look like?

Will we get along? At midnight, will she mind if I kiss her and then headbutt her while screaming "SKULLSPLIH-ERRRRRR!!!!

The girls showed up, not only smelling good and nearly melting my kilt with their SuperPowers of Hotness, but toting snacks as well.

No, I'm not puffing my chest out in that picture, my body is literally swelling with tremulous excitement. I may have actually burst if I hadn't distracted myself by placing my hand somewhere that normally gets me slapped.

It's snowing like a bastahd here in the Mile-High City, and I gotta drive home in this shit, so I'll get to more pics and the rest of the evening tonight or tomorrow.

On a side note, her Queasliness had yet to move even three feet from my luggage.

By now I was positive that this was making Dusty jealous, but that could have been because his li'l whorecat was now hanging her tongue lustily out of her feline mouth.

Pictures of me making out with Dusty soon, I swear.

Watch out for deer.