THE HAIR OF THE DOG

Gerald "The Ox" Nelson looked through the shattered windshield of his Mom's 1998 Ford Taurus. Beyond the spiderweb pattern radiating outward from the bloody spot where his own head had struck the windshield he could see the crumpled, smoking hood wrapped around a telephone pole. Through his ringing ears he heard a voice from somewhere to his left saying "...1540 Kennedy," and "...I think he's drunk."

Still shaky and definitely drunk Gerald reached into the back seat where he found the remains of a twelve pack scattered on the floorboards. In his shaky, blood-stained hands he gathered four beers before exiting the vehicle. He slumped down onto the street with his back against the car and very deliberately set the four beers in a row in front of him. Glaring defiantly at the growing crowd of onlookers he yelled, "YOU WATCHING?!?!"

Assured he had their undivided attention, Gerald pulled himself up, selected a beer and drank it all in one smooth gulp, a feat he had learned in college. Then, tossing the empty onto the lawn behind him, he quickly chugged a second and a third. After the third beer he stopped momentarily. He felt a little queasy like he might vomit, but the distant sound of sirens gave him the necessary motivation to master his rebellious stomach and force down the fourth beer.

Moments later, an ambulance and a cruiser, rolled up to the scene.

The trooper, a serious looking young man, asked him, "How much have you had to drink tonight?" Speaking over the blaring sirens of an approaching fire engine, Gerald yelled, "I've had four since the accident."

The trooper looked skeptical, and the OX looked triumphant- a look that said without words, "prove it!"