I Have Newfound Respect for Curt Schilling After Sneaking a Flask in My Sock into the Bar

So Friday night my buddy came up to the apartment I’m subleasing to drink, party, go to the bar, strike out with girls on the dance floor, etc. We’re at the pregame slamming beers but obviously are going to need some extra liquid courage at the bar, and there’s no way in hell we’re buying overpriced Long Islands (we did anyways). Like any normal man I pour our whiskey into my flask and am ready to get going. Only one catch: I’m wearing my tight pants (too much leg day) that have small pockets and now I’m sorta stuck on where to conceal my booze. Now this wasn’t my first rodeo with a flask, I was kicked out of the first bar I snuck a flask into, and if anything I’m like the veteran pitcher in Major League that can store a variety of liquids and oils on his body:

I  got clever and rolled with the flask in my sock. Once we stepped off I felt the fucker slowly digging into my ankle. I put up with it, mainly because my eyes were on the prize of just getting onto the dance floor and getting black out drunk, but also because I was already blackout drunk. We reach the bar (can’t say which one on the off chance someone actually reads this godforsaken blog) and I’m in the clear. Only issue is I’m still stuck with the flask in my sock for the rest of the night and I eventually get a welt and bruise and finally just keep it in my pocket. I couldn’t even imagine pitching Game 6 of the ALCS with a stitches in my ankle, let alone try to do the running man with a bulky motherfucker tearing away at my epidermis.

Longstory short my buddy ends up doing anal with a girl and I get stuck with a massive ankle bruise that is still there all because I’m too much of an alcoholic to get drunk off an “average” amount of alcohol.

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