The "Breakdancing" Story There's a reason my wife tells me that I should not be allowed out "unsupervised".

A number of years ago, while still lodged firmly in the grasp of
Corporate America, a few colleagues and I decided to have a night of
laughs and drinks. It just so happened that on this particular Friday,
my blushing bride was out of town for the entire weekend.
And that was the first mistake I made.

The second mistake I made is as follows:
I jumped feet first onto the "let's get the weekend started early" bandwagon.

The original plan was to leave work, hit happy hour. have a few drinks, and
then move on to the comedy club for a few laughs. A simple evening of
fun and frivolity, and then off to bed.

But of course, one of the geniuses that was leading the group thought it would be a good idea to ditch out early and hit the first bar early. Normally, when faced
with such a dilemma in the movies or on TV, you would see a little devil and a little angel representation of yourself pop up over your shoulder. They would duke it out, make their case, and the better argument would win out.

Well, I never gave either of them an opportunity to materialize, much less say anything. I just nodded my head, grabbed my coat, and out the door I went in search of the evening's first beer.

We headed across the street to the mexican place for beer, shots, and plenty of free chips and salsa. At three o'clock in the afternoon.

After the first basket of chips, I decided it would be a good idea to leave
my car in the parking lot and get a ride home. However, I did not think
far enough in advance to get my car keys out of the car. More on that
later.

Time to get heading to the comedy club. Most of that was
a bit of a blur for me. I'm sure I laughed like a coked-up hyena, but I
really don't remember. I know that I definitely had more drinks though.
After all, it was a 2 drink minimum. And I always go above and beyond
in regards to that.

And just when I thought it I was safe and
would soon be in the warm embrace of my bed, one of the women in the
party decided that it would now be a good time to go dancing.

Did the devil and angel appear over my shoulders for this new twist to the
planned events of the evening? Hell no they didn't. Much louder than
was probably socially acceptable, I'm sure I voiced my opinion that
this was a fan-freakin'-tastic idea!

My enthusiasm for the upcoming dance-a-thon was unmatched. We made our way to American Pie. Just so happens that one of the local radio stations was there that night, playing their version of "Fear Factor".

2 of our party had made their way to the bar, found drinks for everyone, and chilled. I, with a fresh budweiser, made my way to the dance floor, solo. One of the other women entered into the faux "Fear Factor" and was eating crickets. Not really sure what happened to her boyfriend.

This is the point of the story when everything goes downhill.

Never let me near a dance floor when I am obviously severly inebriated.

Apparently, I had watched the movie "Breakin'" one too many times and thought that I could actually breakdance. No pop-lockin', windmillin', or robotin' for me though. No. That would not properly showcase my skill.

In my drunken stupor, I realized that the only way for the public to become truly aware of how skilled I was in the art of breakin', I would have to do "the worm".

And do "the worm" I did. Masterfully I might add. At least for the first few moments. I was wormin' my way across the dancefloor
when my bravado caught up to me. Instead of my arms or chest hitting
the floor and propelling the rest of my body along, my chin hit the
solid wooden floor.

I popped up quick-like, hoping that no one
had witnessed my dancing debacle. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing a
white t-shirt that evening. And as soon as I was back on my feet, the
blood starting pouring out of the gaping hole in my chin.

I was totally oblivious to this fact though, as I turned to face my
friends, dance superiority blinding me to what had just happened.

From the looks my friends were giving me, something had gone terribly awry. I was ushered into the bathroom to assess the damage and get cleaned up. It was the moment
that I looked in the mirror and saw first-hand what that damned dancefloor
had done to my face that I was able to react. Only it wasn't my mind
that reacted, it was my body. And my body did not like what I had done
to it. My body told me, in no uncertain terms, that it was time to stop
acting stupid and get home.

And how did my body tell me this, you might ask? By violently expelling everything that was in my stomach. Once that was done, the realization that I had craked my face open became abundantly clear.

Thankfully, I had big brother Gary there at my side. He got me cleaned up. But not
before the bouncers at the club kicked us out. Apparently they thought
I had been fighting and wanted me out.

First time I've ever been kicked out of a club without throwing a punch.

Although I'm sure I required stitches, I refused an emergency room treatment,
instead opting for the safety of home. (This is a running theme)

Remember how I left my keys in my car? In the parking lot? 40 miles from my house?

Yeah.

So once I was delivered at my front door step, I had no way of getting
inside. We had to break in. Don't remember much of that though.

What I do know is that I've got a nice little scar on my chin to remind me
of the situation. But that's why I grew the goatee, nobody sees the
scar, so nobody asks how I got it. And had I not just written it all
down for you here, it would have never been known.  ¶ 6:14 PM