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Parking Lot Ethics 101
Severe pain.... mind-numbing, white-hot bolts of electricity surged in his crotch as his head hit the pavement. He tried to move, to relieve the agony. A cold pallor swept across his body and his hands instinctively reached downward, rivulets of sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes. No sounds immediately emanated, though his mouth fell open, sucking like a beached carp. Only a deep, guttural response from his throat reminded him that he needed to breathe.
Panic became an afterthought replaced by waves of paroxysm in his gut, and as he turned his head to the side, putrescent remains of hot wings and Bud Lite soon blighted the asphalt where he lay. Somehow, his endocrine system sent a signal for all his organs to simultaneously overload. If this was his body's natural pain-relief mechanism, then God was a cruel master, intent on making him pay for his bout with insobriety.
The retching subsided, he suddenly felt light-headed and giddy, the pain simply gone. A peaceful calm overtook him, and the only sound he heard was that of his heartbeat in his ears. Lying there, in the stillness of that parking lot, he started to faintly make out harsh, round, white lights that broke the inky blackness of the night, burning his teary eyes.
He heard muted voices and felt several sets of hands grasping at his arms and shoulders in a semi-successful attempt to right his ship. Friends dusted his clothing and handed him his hat. In the fog of his mind, Bubba Strunk once and for all time resolved that it would never again be necessary to use the Braille method when reminding Cindy Lou Parker of her butt's voluptuous proportion.
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