I recently had to steady the fragile nerves of a young heathen-in-training (or "hitman", to use the known nomenclature) as he'd discovered some hemoglobin two-stepping with a freshly dropped lincoln log. Now, after years of drinking beer like the world was gonna end (or like i was gonna be shipped off to the 'nam, if you prefer to kick it old school,) I had to chuckle. I looked into his welled up eyes,"Oh, my little bird, you've laid your first candy-striped turd!" As all senior heathens know, a little ketchup in your canoe paddle is a rite of passage. I felt obligated to ease his fragile bunny psyche, as I could sense the force was strong in this one. "Have you been drinking a ridiculous amount of whiskey?" I knowingly asked. His awkward glance at his feet was all the answer I needed. "If there's blood in your stool, it's totes cool. Lay off the whiskey and stick to the beer, then you'll just spray mud and wipe til you smear." As his head slowly raised, his gentle eyes met mine. It was then that I realized-it was fucking Ryan Gosling! I sheepishly asked him to dance, and as I laid my arms around his strong shoulders I wondered, "should I kiss my handsome prom king?" Naw...it totes wasn't Ryan Gosling, but you should check out the movie "Drive". Dude is a dreamboat. Did you see him break up that fight in NYC? I'd like him to break up a fight between m' dick 'n balls. Shit...I lost my train of thought....oh yeah, the young candy-striper. Anyways, I was all "Dude, fuck it. Let's just party." And then I woke up with a hemorrhoid.