And now, a story entitled "Peter's really drunk (but at least he's not lying to Bob Geldof)"

Two weeks ago, around the time of the Magic Bus incident, my good friend Mike came for a visit, catching a ride to Toronto with his friend Rob. Mike is my oldest friend in the world; I've known him since before kindergarten. Mike has long espoused a philosophy known as the Five Glories, in which the five greatest endeavors in which one can engage oneself are eating, sleeping, fighting, romancing, and taking a really great dump. Overjoyed to have him visit, I was determined to be the greatest host ever, and to start him off with the means to fulfill at least one of the Five.

"I'm gonna eat everything in your house!" Mike bellowed as he entered, with Rob in tow.

"Start with these!" I replied, hurling a bag of potato chips at him.

"Wow!" he said, gratefully (and impressed with my preparedness), and we went out to sit on my lawn.

"Hold on," I said. "I'll get you guys some juice." I went back in, filled two glasses, and walked back out with one in each hand, the very picture of a happy host.

Mike and Rob were sitting in lawn chairs and talking to my landlord, Gus, an old Greek guy who's been coming over a lot recently to check on the tomato plants he's been growing in our yard. "He thinks you're drunk," Rob said.

"Hi, Gus," I said. "Want a drink?"

"Oh, no ... no. That's okay, Peter." said Gus, with a strange expression on his face. He eventually did accept some chips, and then left. Mike, Rob, and I proceeded to have some fun times, including the perplexing Magic Bus incident. Then, Rob eventually split to hook up with some other buddies to hit the clubs. And then, in hushed tones, Mike began to spin a tale....

"When you were in the house and your landlord came by," Mike said, "Rob got up right away to introduce himself. You know, because there were two strange guys sitting in the yard. He told your landlord you were in the house. Then he told him, 'Peter's really drunk.' "

According to Mike, Rob managed, in a very short time, to paint a vivid picture of me as being so obnoxiously, incapacitatingly, falling-down drunk that the two of them finally had gotten so disgusted that they had had to just go outside and get away from me for a while.

Hearing this, my landlord just shook his head in disappointment. "Peter's a bad guy," he said sadly. "... Peter's a bad guy."

It was then that I had walked outside and greeted them. And you know, with a glass of swirling, colored liquid in each hand and a big smile on my face, I probably did look just like a happy, doublefisting drunk at that very moment.