I was like, "Dude-bra...

...it's probably not the best ding-dang idea to go bringin' your little California dog out here to Nebraska where it's cold as death and we've got a couple feet of snow on the ground." To which Mickey responded, "my dog has balls on him the size of grapefruit, Hoss!" That, of course, could be an even bigger problem, but I didn't want to piss him off as he's a touchy little s.o.b. and he's smashed a couple phones while on the line with me in the past. (Mickey Rourke can be particularly touchy about the "facial experiments" he's taken part in o'er the past decade or so and I have an affinity for bein' the fella that brings it up.) So I said, "aw, the hell with it... I know a nice little spot where we can put together a fire and toss back a few cold ones while your little cali-pup chases around some deers and rolls in cow shit." Of course, last time Mickey came out to take in some prairie woods and slurp suds he got so flippin' lit he built a snow fort, invited in a goddamn bucket calf and spooned the damn thing 'til I found him at sun-up. Plus, he left from that visit with a wicked case of Hemorrhoids.

Now I don't want to try and make you feel as though Mick only shows his face to chug beers till he's comfortable enough to take an animal as a bedmate, but it's not too damn far from the truth... this last visit I thought I'd learn him a little with a trip to a former skunk farm just outside of a small rustic village near the Kansas border. Sadly he was unimpressed with my spinners involving the skunk pelts and the little pond they pulled ice blocks from for selling to the area farms, but was far more concerned with trying to weave the deer dingleberrys found around the lo-cal into hemp necklaces and earrings. I gave'em a good "hipster" ass chewing and bullied him into shotgunning a couple tall boys and we were right back in business with him checkin' under every evergreen for a warm bundle of skunk to squeeze in his dog-purse for later.

So I reckin' me and my ol' buddy Warren done...

...beat'em to the punch.

I suppose it was three or four years back when I got a ring on the phone and it was ol' "Buffy" (he flippin' hates it when I call'em that). So I was two sheet as it was and couldn't quite make out what he was gettin' at, but then it hit me... It was an invite to drop in on those S.O.Bs down in the naughty-bits of the globe, the antarctica. He was rattlin' on about diggin' up some ol' scotch and that got me to rememberin' the time we were slurpin down a bottle of tasty HyVee brand scotch and I cut the tip of my darned finger clean off! Now them's was the days. So, long story short, we went on down to the pole and searched out some scotch and brought it on back and wasn't more two seconds after ol' Buffy's private jet hit the tarmac that he was quizzin' me on a good batch o' woods to go drink'er in with our new buddy, Penguin (little bastard smells like a bag of shit all the damn time). So, that's how we beat them Scotchy fellas (LINK) to a cache of sweet, smokey whiskey that turned Buffy all glassy eyed. I says to him, "Hey, Buff... what's with the glassy eyes?" and he just looks at me and hucks up some fur like a cat and turns and tries chasin' down a couple humpin' beefs.

The man knows how to party.

Me and 'ol Johanns tossin' a couple back...

Me and my super old buddy M. Johanns were out with another good buddy of mine drinkin' some beers in the woods. I was like, "Mike, how's come you ain't never drinkin' any good shit like Budweiser heavy. All you's ever got's in yer hands in that fruity crud." and Mike was all, "Shut you pie hole, Hoss, Goddamnit! Or I'll bust out my guns and give you a flippin' show." So I says, "well do'er then... let's see them pythons!" So, he went and pulled 'em out and I was like, "you've got some long pit hair on you, Mike."