Buddy is 22 years-old, and buddy has had too much of the Molson’s. Or so his girlfriend says. Buddy is semi-conscious, moaning and holding his stomach.
“Do something,” the girlfirend yells. “He’s sick!”
No, he’s drunk. There’s a difference. But still, we do the usual I-drank-to-much routine: IV fluids, bloodwork, in bed, in the recovery position.
Ethanol level comes back.
12, is what, half a beer? Buddy could’ve driven home. The legal limit is 17.
Buddy goes home, miraculously cured. Girlfriend is chastened, and maybe even a little disgusted.
It was Brad who summarized the situation.
“Buddy,” he said, “needs to turn in his man card.”