Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. At least I think I did. See, at 4:30 a.m. last Saturday, a most dreadful thing happened: We ran out of booze. Cigarettes, too. But lo, one of our party remembered that the V-Room opens at 6 a.m.! So I made a pot of coffee, we stayed up, called a cab at 5:45 and reunited with that sweet, sweet nectar of yours—vodka, via a very strong Bloody Mary. Things were going great (thank you Jesus for bartenders like C.J.!) until around 9 a.m., when we called it a night—and another cab. Here’s where it gets confusing: Lord, you know I’m always down for you throwing a little bit of the Good Book at me, but did it really have to be in the form of my cab driver? After 16 consecutive hours of boozin’? With my head spinning on my spine? Sure, sure, I may have forgotten about “moderation” and at some point lost all good “decorum” but why God—oh, why—did you force that cab driver to press play on his books-on-tape copy of the Bible before he drove us home? My hangover was penance enough. Learning I was going straight to hell? Come on, Man. Give your people a break!

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