Dancefloor - 1, Kevin - 0 There's a reason my wife doesn't let me go out unsupervised.

For whatever reason, my wife happened to be out of town for the weekend. And on this fateful Friday, I had been coerced to going out after work. (Actually, the plan had been to head to the local comedy club for a few beers and a few laughs after work)

The problem with the aforementioned plan as that the group that was going had all decided to leave work early and get a jumpstart on the night. Luckily there was a mexican cantina across the street from the office. Only God knows how many beers, margaritas, and shooters were ingested. And trust me when I say that the complimentary chips and salsa really don't do that much for the sake of alcohol absorption. This was when it was decided that I would leave my car in the parking lot.

We made our way to the comedy club and ordered more brew, and I'm pretty sure that there was at least one funny comedian, but don't hold me to that.

Luckily, I had a ride back to my neck of the woods and would not have to deal with retrieving my vehicle on this particular night. Unluckily, we weren't quite done with the night's events. Someone said that they wanted to go dancing. Under other circumstances, this would mean prowling for loose women and trying to, at least hint at, sleeping with them. But being married, I really had no business being in a dance club.

But, as has been stated before, once the dance beat hits my inebriated body, I can't help but try out some moves. The problem with this is that I was attempting moves that had not been anywhere near popular since the '80's. And if you can read between the lines, that meant that I was working myself into a breakdancing frenzy.

The music was on and appropriate for such a venture, and my mind told my body that it was indeed ON! Not wanting to waste time pop-lockin', spinnin', or breakin', I immediately go for the gold. I hop up and drop down, into the mesmerizing ministrations of "the worm". And all was good. I was the center of attention. I was a crowd pleaser. And then I hopped back up.

I turned to face the few people that were left from our after work outing, and all was smiles. But then I saw those smile turn to looks of disgust and horror, and for the life of me, could not determine why.

Apparently, doing the worm whilst extremely intoxicated somehow impairs judgment, mobility, and basic reasoning skills. On one of the down movements, my chin made full contact with the dance floor. Literally splitting it open. And when I hopped back up and turned to my friends, the blood just started flowing, creating a DNA piece of artwork on the white t-shirt I was wearing.

Gary, being the most sober one of us all, herded me to the bathroom to get cleaned up. And that's when I saw the devastation that I had incurred. Now, being mind numbingly drunk and seeing the sight of a split open chin coupled with copious amounts of blood now congealing on my shirt, what was I to do? What anyone else in my position would do: begin to vomit....violently. Luckily, Gary has a good sense of direction, and he steered me to the nearest trashcan/sink/toilet/urinal (I don't really remember which it was.

Now outside of physically harming myself and publicly humiliating myself, I didn't think it could get any worse.

But I was wrong.

Due to my awesome breakdancing skills we were now being thrown out of the club.

Even after explaining the situation to the bouncer with no neck, we were still tossed. I guess even though there was no fight, there was enough blood spilled to constitute a fight, and the management didn't want to present the wrong image to the rest of the general public.

And so, in a drunken bloody stupor, I was driven home. But only because I vehemently refused to go to the emergency room to get stitched up. I mean, come on, chicks dig scars right?

And that is why, to this day, I cover my chin in the anonymity of a goatee.  ¶ 9:41 PM