Buddycrocker has been too kind. The truth about Friday night is as follows: I proceeded to drunk-dial Buddycrocker after a 6:30 pm drinking binge that went on for several hours.
(Wouldn't you go on a drinking binge if you were repeatedly subjected to the company of the biggest losers in Manhattan, under the guise of finding a suitable companion?)
I hopped in a cab downtown and knocked on BuddyCrocker's door. I then forced him to go to a run-down basement Burger King where I wolfed down a Whopper Jr. with cheese and some fries. One plate of fries was not enough. We then proceeded to a diner/bar at 2 Gold Street where I had another drink and we ordered some "Disco Fries" -- fries with a side pot of gravy and a side pot of melted brie.*
I wanted to die when I arrived home at 1AM. But, I did revel in the fact that in one's thirties there is the occasional opportunity to act as though one is in one's twenties.
* That suspiciously tasted like something other than brie
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