Pisting knucklehead supreme with cheese

Last night was a good night -- and the Heat won, right? Sure, as the streets of Coconut Grove flooded with knucklehead spillage and suds stench, did it really have to take all of them bars half-an-hour to provide some much needed alcohol? What the fuck? Thankfully, this whole NBA malarkey is now over and real people can finally get back to more important matters like the World Cup. Sporting events should only be taken seriously pending their worldly significance. But I digress. The importance of last night wasn't an expensive (and hard-earned) championship finally making it to the Magic City [does this force the Panthers to man-up for a Stanley Cup?], but the fact that everybody's favorite slow turner and most assistance-laden shenanigans provider hit the quarter century mark.
The implications of this are obvious.
Good company was had from the immediate circle and since everyone was so high about Shaq and Wade earning their checks, all the happy drunken strangers were real quick with the high-fives and the sweaty hugs. I'd like to thank the curly-haired cocksucker who threw a roll of paper towels and spilled my Castler and moreover, I'd like to thank his rather large friend who diffused the situation by replacing it. Sweet Stef thought I was a little pissy, but c'mon babe, that was a five dollar beer and everything ended up well! Chris L's phoenix lands on the 25th. That night he dies again. He's gonna need help piecing it together afterwards. Now, for a little laudanum and absinthe... let's chase a weir of dragons. Let's keep that harsh pavement out of the mouths. Let's bypass that which we can't control. Let's be Lions of Zion. Let us sin peacefully at all hours whilst identifying fuckery most foul. Let us lie with Donovan. Let us spend another twenty-five with Jesse's casual wit and moments shared. Let's do it like the Wipers (and eventually like the Beltones) and "let's go, let's go away!"