I’m a liar.

I mean, I was on vacation. Sorta… Mostly I was just laying under a tree for the last two days shooting at beer cans and helping rid the world of the horror known as orange Oly;

I've told the story before, but I will again. Several years ago I was brought to Portland to emcee a party at the PDW warehouse. At some point as I was barking my particular flavor of whatevers into the bullhorn at the assembled crowd, somebody sensed that I may have been feeling a bit parched, so being the kind soul whoever that was is, they dropped a chilled six pack of Oly cans at my feet, which over the course of the evening, I drank without pause. Not knowing that the formula inside had changed however, and along with a handful of other libations, my physical response was one of dizziness, nausea, and general white girl wastedness. At the event’s conclusion, a group of us made our way downtown, during which time I crashed no fewer than five times. Finally, we arrived at a historic peeler bar, and went inside. As soon as we sat down, a lovely individual in the bar’s employ came to take my hand and lead me away to a darkened corner, where she proceeded to earn the $30.00 one of my spirited compatriots had paid her upon our arrival, the hard way. I recall putting my hands on my head, and I believe, momentarily falling asleep. The song ended, as did her admirable efforts at maintaining my attention, and I returned to the table where we continued with our debaucherous ways. It wasn’t until the next morning when I saw my leg and to my horror, realized I most likely bled on my hapless hostess the evening before. I take responsibility for my actions, and if I could apologize to the woman a thousand times, I would. Just the same, had I been drinking regular Oly, and not the horrible orange canned malt liquor toxicity, I doubt that any of my shame would have occurred. In short, fuck you orange Oly.

A video posted by Stevil Kinevil (@allhailtheblackmarket) on Oct 31, 2015 at 1:32pm PDT