anger... rising...

Mister Evil Breakfast's List Of People I Want To Punch In The Head Or Hit With A Crowbar Because They Piss Me Off (MEBLOPIWTPITHOHWACBTPMO)

No intro required, I think the heading says it all. Let's polish up our knuckles and get into the grand old tradition of cracking skulls.


People who say "Taxi" when someone drops a glass

You've probably heard it in a pub, restaurant, at a party... but strangely, not at a taxi rank... the sound of a dropped glass followed by some champion shouting, "Taxi!" It's supposed to be a humorous quip to let everybody within earshot know that (a) someone has just dropped a glass, and (b) they're obviously too drunk to be able to stand, walk, or hold another glass and should be taken home.

The "Taxi!" thing was funny when you were 17. Now you're 53, it's lost a bit of its charm. Get a new line, or shut the hell up when I throw my glasses around. The next time I hear someone shout "Taxi!" in a pub, I'm going to yell "Duck!" and "Crowbar!" If you get hit, it's your own fault. I did give you warning.


People who say "I could make this myself" when they're looking at things in a shop


Usually applies to old biddy ducks at the markets when they pick up a hand-crafted photo frame, beaded jewellery or amateur painting. "I could do this myself," they piff. Then fucking do it yourself; show some initiative and open your own fucking shop if it's so damn easy. You could also make your own bread and milk your own cows, but I'm pretty sure you're happy enough to lob a couple of bucks over to Mr Woolworths every week for a few groceries, aren't you? "I could make this myself!" You know what else you could do? Shut up.


The Melbourne Storm

If there was ever a bigger bunch of spastics to play in an NRL Grand Final, I'd like to meet them. It was nice of them to turn up for the rest of the year, but apparently they were all out at Billy Slater's 15th birthday party the night before and slept in. Israel Falou woke up at midday and said, "Hey boys, we've got the grand final on today." And everyone else said, "Nah, not in the mood," rolled over and went back to sleep.

And if any smart-arse from Melbourne wants to 'defend' them by saying, "LOL mister evil breafast, their not into rubgy league were a AFL state here LOL ROFL!" then get your fucking team out of the competition and play your AFL. Also, learn how to catch.


Office Journalists

The latest case to make sensational headlines (other than some bullshit about some kind of sock market crash and how it's going to ruin the economy of the world - I had no idea that socks were that important, honestly) is Aussie backpacker Britt Lapthorne.

I have been involved in three conversations this week about what "really" happened to her in Croatia, and how her decomposed corpse turned up a little bit worse-for-wear. Not for a second am I making fun of what happened to her, what I am making fun of are the people who think they know more from reading an article in the Sydney Morning Herald than the police who are investigating the case. People have justified their "she was drunk and was murdered" statement by saying, "I've been to the cliff that overlooks that beach, it's quite dodgy." Well, fuck. Case closed; how could any dispute that evidence? "Bodies don't decompose that quickly in the water!" Based on what, genius? Your degree in medicine? Your post-grad in forensic science? Your PhD thesis entitled 'The Human Body and Decomposition: The effects of a cliff, sea water and 19 days in Croatia"?

We may never know what happened to her, and judging by the shape of her 'body', we're probably a bit lucky for that.


Little fucking homie kids

I honestly thought these guys were extinct. Apparently they're not, as they have again flourished within the city centres of the world. We've all been fashion victims at one stage in our lives, whether it was the 'too much denim' phase, the 'happy pants' phase, the 'Guns n Roses t-shirt with the home-made cut off jeans' phase, but seriously, what is with this shit where people are wearing their pants around their knees and accessorized by homo belts. Rule: If you wear a belt as an accessory, you're a woman. In my opinion (and it's my opinion that counts), there are too many ugly little people showing off their undies. The best thing about these kids is that they can't run away from me when I decide to kick their ass. I do love it when they trip over their own crotch while I’m chasing them and they start to cry. I’m a man of simple pleasures sometimes.


The Australian Cricket Team

After Australia's 'domination' in the first game of the 2008 series against India (which they still didn't win), they again showed a gritty determination to lie down and give up in the second game.

Losses will happen, fine fine fine, but during this game, they showed a lack of penetration that would have embarrassed Clara Meadmore. The Australian bowlers blame the fact that they couldn't get the Indian brand ball to swing, seam or spin. The Aussie batmen claimed that the ball swung, seamed and spun too much. Here's a solution, Australian Cricket Team: head into Rebel Sport with a couple of bucks and hey, presto. There's a fucking ball. It's red and shiny and round, kind of similar to the red, shiny, round balls that you should have been playing with for a while. It seems that the only balls they've been playing with have been their own, and even then I'm pretty sure they weren't having much fun.

Forget about asking Warney to come back - the guy's retired, get over it. Forget about asking Andrew fucking Symonds to come back; since his 'gone fishing' shenanigans, his scorebook reads like binary code. According to reports, the team is taking a 'mini-break' to forget about cricket and relax before the start of the third game. Well excuse me, but since you're so SHIT at the sport, perhaps it would be better to actually practice it. I'm useless at playing the guitar, but if I was in a guitar-playing contest, I'd probably put my holiday on hold for a bit and pick up the axe.

So much punching and only two fists. I wish I was this guy (and not just because of his beard):

things that go bump in the night

I really do need to update this blog thing more often; I keep saving these links in the hope that I'll actually get to writing something hilarious about it one day.

This one must have been a slow news day, even for the Adelaide papers: http://www.news.com.au/adelaidenow/story/0,22606,24245098-5005962,00.html

AN Indian filmgoer rented out an entire cinema to disprove a director's claim that his latest horror movie is so scary no one can watch it alone.
Pavin Ponanna, 30, booked all 227 seats at a Bangalore multiplex for an evening screening of Phoonk, the Pioneer newspaper reported.
He asked cinema staff to have a doctor on call, but emerged declaring: "I never felt scared, not even for a moment. I took just 10 minutes to settle down."
Bollywood producer-director Ram Gopal Verma had challenged any fan to watch Phoonk - the story of a happy family suddenly beset by the evil forces of black magic - on their own.
Mr Ponanna, an advertising professional, visited a temple to prepare for the experience, the Pioneer said.
The tickets cost him 47,000 rupees ($1160).

I was going to do the same thing for Beverly Hills Chiauahua, but realised that at Hoyts' prices, it would have cost me $3,518.50 for 227 seats, plus at least double that for a tub of popcorn and a Coke. Personally, I don't have that much cash, nor do I have the inclination to take advertising tag-lines and marketing guff as truth. If people took the tagline for Jaws ("Don't go in the water") seriously, no one would swim, and the swimming races at the Olympics would suck big time, although the diving could be way cooler. Plus, everyone would smell and I'm pretty sure Bondi Beach would have been closed down. People who hadn't seen Jaws would be asking, "Hey man, why aren't you swimming?" And you'd be saying, "Fuck man, haven't you seen Jaws? Don't go in the water," and the other people would laugh at you and go and swim in the beach and you'd be sitting on the sand, ruing the day you ever watched Jaws.

The Blair Witch Project had the line "everything you've heard is true". Really, EVERYTHING. Like, what about the story about the old man who lives down the end of the street who has a big mean dog and all the kids say that if you lose a ball in his back yard, the man will trap you and feed you to his dog and keep your ball? Is that true? IS IT?! HUH?!

And let's be honest, this is a line that the DIRECTOR OF THE MOVIE uttered. Last time I checked, movie directors will rarely say, "This movie is a piece of shit, I wouldn't see it." (We'll leave that up to George Clooney when talking about Batman and Robin - by the way, Georgie boy, you still owe me money).

I'm glad Mr Ponanna-the-spanner is such a hardcore film-goer that to "prepare for the experience", he had to visit a temple. This guy would be a pain in the arse to hang out with.
"Hey Ponanna, do you want to go and see a movie? Wall E starts in 20 minutes."
"Shit no, there's no time to go to a temple."
"But it's not a horror film. It's a family movie about a robot..."
"I am not prepared to see that movie."
"It's really good though, it's funny and cute and..."
"I AM NOT PREPARED!"
"Oh. Ok... well, wanna grab a DVD? I think Iron Man is out."
"My suit of armour isn't finished yet."
"You don't need it, we're just watching a movie..."
"MY SUIT OF ARMOUR ISN'T READY YET!"

What if you wanted to have a hit of golf with him one day? Would he need to join the PGA tour to prepare? What if you were going to meet him at the pub for a beer? Would he need to become a brewer? It's all too much.

I also had a doctor on call when I went to see Beverly Hills Chiauahua, but just so I'd have someone who I could punch in the face afterwards, and I'm in a doctor-punching mood.

people with games and stories to tell

Regular readers of this blog might have come to the conclusion that I enjoy heading to the pub for a cold beer every now and again. Some of you out there might agree with me. Some of you out there might even drink with me, so cheers (your shout) if that's the case.

There are a few games that you can play whilst you're drinking at the pub - and I'm not talking about darts or pool, because I'm useless at both of those. Same with Big Game Hunter and those golf video games where you have to roll your hand over the magic button ball thing. If they had Street Fighter, Mortal Kombat or Golden Axe at pubs, I'd probably never leave. But the games I'm talking about are the ones you play at your table while you chat and drink with your friends.

Game 1: Beer-ringed octopus

Simply take your frosty schooner of beer and leave it on the table (no coaster) for a few seconds. Lift it up and take a drink. Put it down again, in a slightly different spot on the table. Lift it up again and look at the beginning of your masterpiece. Keep sipping and using the condensation from your glass to make a pretty picture. The rules here are simple: You must drink before placing your glass back down to add a new circle or stroke. You will also need to act quickly, because those beer-rings won't stay around forever.
* points are awarded by the other members of the table for artistic merit


Game 2: The Missing Drink

When one of your drinking buddies is distracted by a hot bartender, another attractive bar patron or a television screen, take their drink and exchange it for yours. This is an especially fun game if they have a lot more in their glass than you do, and don't realise until one of you has finished your drink. Bonus points are awarded if they are drinking something different to you.
* 1 bonus point if it's a different brand/flavour beer
* 2 bonus points if they are drinking a mixed spirit and you exchange it for beer/a different spirit
* 3 bonus points if you don't exchange your drink at all and finish both
- 2 points for getting caught in the swapping act
- 1 point if they pick it after their initial sip
- 4 points if you exchange it for a drink with less in it than your own


Game 3: (Hair of the) Shaggy Dog

This one should be kept for later in the drinking session when everyone's had a few, and tongues have been loosened by a substantial amount of alcohol. It's that point in the night where everything is funny and everyone has something to add.

The object of the game is to tell a story or a joke off the cuff, derailing all other conversations through the anticipation that your story will be entertaining, funny or promote further conversation. The idea is to keep your audience spellbound and hanging on every word, despite your story not having a clear beginning, middle or end. A great way to frustrate your companions is to complicate every detail of your story. Instead of saying "a few days ago at work..." try this: "a few days ago, like, last Wednesday... or Tuesday... no, it wasn't Tuesday, that was the day I had training, so it must have been Wednesday, because I had to go to the shop to get my lunch because I left it on the bench at home, and I went to Subway and ran into a guy from school who was coming out of the bookshop... anyway, so on Wednesday, my friend... well, not really my friend, it's my friend's ex-boyfriend, who used to go out with Kate from uni... not the Kate you know, a different Kate who was in one of my tutes in first year..." by this stage, you should have confused people as to whether this story is about you, the guy from school, Kate, your friend's ex-boyfriend, Subway or your own work.
* 1 point if you can keep everyone's attention for 2 minutes.
* 2 points if you actually make it to a discernable "ending". 2 bonus points if you can then create a sequel.
* 3 points if someone then prompts you with a genuine, "Then what happened?"
-1 if you get interrupted within the first 30 seconds.
-1 if you lose more than half your audience after your first 'complication'.


Game 4: Drink to forget

It's your round at the bar, you need to get four beers and a bourbon. Come back to the table with the drinks with three beers and two bourbons, and convince someone that they ordered a bourbon.
* 1 point if he takes the drink but is a bit miffed.
* 2 points if you succeed in convincing him.
* 3 points if he apologises for disbelieving you.
- 2 points if you are forced to go back to the bar to get the right drink.


Game 5: Tower of Beerbell

The Tower of Beerbell is a race to build a tower of empty beer glasses on your table. By the sixth glass, the tower starts to lean quite precariously, so more care needs to be taken when stacking. It is a contest against another person or team that is sitting on your table, as well as a challenge against the bar staff who are collecting the empties. Once the first tower is collected, simply begin again and try to beat your previous mark.
* 1 point if you stack more glasses than your opponent
* 3 points if you stack more glasses in round 2 than you did in round 1
-2 points if the bar staff collect before your tower has reached its third tier
-3 points if you get asked not to build any more towers by the bar staff
-5 points if your tower collapses


Game 6: Pub Idol

The idea of this game is to hum or sing a line from a well-known song, and continue it for as long as it takes for someone else to pick it up.
* 1 point if you get the whole table singing with you.
* 2 points if it only needed one line.
* 4 points if it spreads to strangers at another table.
* 100 points if it involves the whole bar.
-2 points if no-one picks it up after 5 repetitions
-5 points if someone succeeds in the same song that you failed in.

Game on!

M-O-O-N, that spells beer!

http://www.news.com.au/story/0,23599,24413990-1243,00.html

This is news? A chick is blind for 3 days? Isn't that the usual way of the typical Aussie battler? Luckily for you, me and the lawyers, I keep a very strict diary. I have transcribed a typical week for you below. Behold the story of the man who is blind for 7 days…

Monday:

Ow. My head hurts. Stupid Sunday beers may have caught up with me while I was sleeping; I should probably take the beer IV drip out. I tried to roll over to turn off my alarm, but the sharp corners of my pillow poked me in the face and made me cry - well, I would have cried, but my body has sucked my tear ducts dry for their precious moisture.

I go to work and spend most of the day staring at a single piece of paper, cradling my head in my hands and trying to look like I'm concentrating, which wasn't easy considering that I was also trying to sleep. I'm not sure how I made it, but I managed to slide out of work at 5:00pm without having spoken to a single person. This could be because I smell like sixteen dirty pubs (the other four I visited were clean) and spent most of the day emitting a single, droning groan of pain.

I figure I deserve a bit of a celebration for having made it through another bleary Monday, so I head to the pub for my rewarding ale.

Things get hazy from here on in, and pretty much the only thing that I can remember is me singing the Happy Days theme song, but changing a few words:

Monday, Monday - Happy Days!
Monday, Monday - Happy Days!
Monday, Monday - Happy Days!

At this point in my diary, there are several pictures of a giant grasshopper attacking a small village, and a few haiku poems about tanks, so it can only be assumed that it was a good night.


Tuesday:

I have no idea what happened last night, although I have the feeling that it's my shout. This could be because I have a new tattoo on my bum that reads "my shout". No time for breakfast today, which is handy, because I also have no food in my house and I head to work.

I am halfway to work when I realise that I should have driven, and it's a shit walk to the office. I turn around and walk back home to pick up my car. It's also a shit walk home, I discover.

The glare from my computer screen was too much to bear for the morning session of work, so I avoided turning on my computer at all. To keep up the illusion that I was working, I moved my mouse around and randomly clicked, and made comments like, "Ah come on you stupid thing!" and "has anyone else's computer gone down?" I enjoyed today at work - who wouldn't love a few hours spent drinking coffee and watching a blank screen?

No more drinking, I told myself. I went to the pub and told them not to serve me any beer that night. They appreciated what I was doing, and agreed. I had been cut-off.

Handy for me that there's another pub next door, as I started getting the withdrawal shakes and sweats by the time I'd reached the door. Phew. I think it was a nice pub as well, but I can't be sure, as my memory isn't what it once was. I think the floor kept moving and someone who looked like me kept spilling beer all over my shirt. They had great pool tables though - or at least they had tables and I had a stick - or maybe it was a fire extinguisher. In any case, I'm pretty sure I won pool, or whatever game I invented using the bar, bottles of alcohol and a fire extinguisher.

The staff there were very good as well - they knew I'd had too many to drive home, and stopped me from trying to get into a car. Very handy, since it wasn't even my car. In retrospect, I should have realised this, as I don't drive a white car with "Police" written on the side. I guess someone's a massive Sting fan. La de dah.


Wednesday:

I promised my boss I was going to be early into work today. I have no idea why she believed me, because I called her house at 5am to let her know. Anyway, I rolled in just before lunchtime, still a bit worse-for-wear. No more drinking, I told myself. Actually, I emailed it to myself. Partly as a reminder to stop drinking, and partly so I could type something and pretend that I was doing work. Somehow, that email chain got me through to the end of the day. I am quite an interesting person to converse with apparently, especially if your conversational preferences revolve around dinosaurs and MC Hammer. I discovered a new species of dinosaur anyway: the "Twolegitasaurus", which had a briefly successful domination during the Triassic period. Some scientists say it evolved, others say it is completely extinct. I'd like to think it's lying dormant somewhere, and will come back with a vengeance.

After a hard day at work, there's nothing better than heading to the pub for a few cold ones. "Too cold!" I thought, so I levelled things out with some flaming shots. "Too hot!"

Needless to say, it took a while to regain the equilibrium. During the course of the evening, fire was introduced to beer, which was introduced to ice, to ice-cream and to a microwave. Equilibrium is a horrible tasting liquid, it seems.


Thursday:

So bright this morning, and that was with my head under three pillows and a doona. Bright bright bright. Either my curtains were on fire (they were, actually; it's lucky I woke up), or the sun was shining like a motherfucker. It also was. I concluded that "today could be a bright day," so I grabbed my sunglasses from the washing machine (long story) and went to work.

I knew I'd normally never be able to get away with wearing sunglasses in the office all day, so I thought up a fairly plausible story ("I gave my eyeballs in a transplant yesterday and am awaiting some replacements, which should arrive this afternoon") and made my way to my desk. It wasn't easy, as the "seeing eye dog" (a stray cat) I had pinched on the way in was pretty angry with me, and was making my blindness act pretty hard to keep up. All was well until lunchtime when I was caught "not being blind" by my boss as I was watching YouTube videos. I was asked to return the cat and do some work. This threw me a bit, cause kitty had wandered off during my 11am nap, and I hadn't seen it since.

Thursday also just happens to be pay-day, and what better way to celebrate being able to eradicate bills and rent and shit and stuff by going to the pub? There is no better way, trust me. I've tried drinking by myself, drinking at someone's house, drinking at a park, drinking in a movie theatre, drinking at a nightclub, drinking at a sporting event... nothing matches the wonderment of drinking at the pub.

Imagine my surprise when the bartender calls 'last drinks'. Ridiculous. "It's still lunchtime!" I tell the bartender. "Maybe it's lunchtime in Russia, champ," he replies. Using my mathematical brain, I figure I've been at the pub for about 15 hours (that's 14 hours more than I usually spend on a lunch break) and spent 18 days worth of pay. I also figure it's too late to go back to work, so I grabbed 'one for the road' and headed on home. Lucky that one was for the road, because that's where it ended up. Damn those glasses; they're really hard to hold, especially when you're also carrying a hot-dog (for the road) and two bar stools (also for the road... and my house).


Friday:

Someone at work asked me if I had been bathing in beer, cause they could smell it soaking out of my pores. I laughed that comment off and said it was a new aftershave. Apparently rum is not a strong concealer of beer-sweat. That's unfortunate; what am I going to do with a bathtub full of rum?

Note to self: Buy some Coke on the way home tonight.


Saturday:

My diary fell away last night. I remember coming home with a 2-litre bottle of Coke and a straw, and hopping into the bath for a relaxing soak. How I woke up with a sombrero and Jose Gonzales' passport is totally beyond me.

I'd better stop these drinking shenanigans, I think. It would be a shame to waste such a glorious weekend in a drunken stupor. However, it would also be a shame to waste such a glorious weekend sitting at home reading a book. I think I should combine the two and read a book in a drunken stupor.

Well... reading when drunk is hard. The words all run into one another and I can't tell if Harry Potter's casting an expelliaramus spell or an adava cadavra charm. Then it was pointed out to me that I wasn't reading Harry Potter at all, and I decided to put the book down (or the 'wine list', as the bartender called it - the movie was better, anyway), and concentrated on the sport that was showing on TV instead. Sport on TV is great; guys are lucky that they can watch pretty much any sporting event and be happy, although I must admit I did get a bit bored by the monotony of the raceI was watching, as no-one was getting into a position to overtake anyone. That smart-arse bartender then advised me that I had fallen off my chair and was watching the ceiling fan instead. I would have punched him in the head, but Schumacher was just about to get into position to make his move and I didn't want to miss that.


Sunday:

Sunday is always a hard day - the weekend is almost over and there's so many empty bottles to throw out. It's depressing, really. However, by the time I'm sober enough to stand up, it's late afternoon, and therefore too late to think about starting anything. I put the empties into the rubbish chute (I don't have a rubbish chute per se, but next door always leaves his mailbox open) and headed out for some fresh air. The air was fresh all the way to the pub, where it then became wetter and more beer-like, therefore slightly more palatable.

It was quite beautiful, really, watching the sun set over the horizon, spreading its golden pink rays over the wispy cloud formations in the sky... it makes you feel small and humble. (On the other hand, do you know what makes you feel huge? Midis. But don't order midi-sized beers, they're a waste of time. Honestly).

So the night began and the world opened itself to me; a wonderful dome of stars circling above... then the sun began to rise, and it was kind of pretty the way that the streams of sunlight made the stars dissolve into the sky... and then it got really bright and my hangover kicked in, I realised I had to go to work in like 20 minutes, I still haven't called Jose Gonzales back about his passport, and the bar staff had been poking me with a broom for four hours and I was getting angry and tired.

It's weeks like this that I'm glad I keep this diary, to remember the good times. Another Monday dawns...

couple of ducks, 22...

The weather's getting warmer, it's time to crack out your favourite beverage, leave work early so you're on the couch by 5:30pm and tune the telly to Channel 7. It's Deal or No Deal time.

Deal or No Deal is otherwise known as "The Suitcase Game" is played thusly: some lucky punter picks a suitcase out of a group of 26. Each case has an amount of cash inside it, from 50 cents to $200 000. You open each of the other cases in random order, hoping to reveal the smaller cash amounts. At the end of each round, the "banker" will offer you some money, the amount of which depends on the cases that you have already opened. If you're happy with the amount of cash offered from the bank, you can accept that money ("deal") and forego whatever actual amount was in the original suitcase you picked. If you're not happy with that amount, you keep picking suitcases ("no deal") either until you are happy with the bank offer, or you have run out of suitcases to eliminate.

Easy eh?

If you're confused, don't worry - this is a game of pure luck. There isn't a way to be 'good' or 'bad' at it - if you knock out all the big numbers in the beginning, you're fucked. But it's not your fault. It's a gamble, plain and simple. There's a 1 in 26 chance that you've got $200,000. There's a 25 in 26 chance that you don't. If you find yourself fucked after one round, don't worry, you're not a shit person, you've just had a shit time on national television.

So, charge your glasses and let's kick your afternoon off nicely:

Deal or No Deal: The Drinking Game

– one drink each time the contestant says, "I came with nothing, I'll leave with nothing!"
– one drink when the contestant's friend says to take the deal and the contestant doesn't listen to them
– two drinks if the contestant then fucks up badly
– one drink whenever the contestant's friend says, "It's up to you." Thanks for your help.
– one drink whenever it looks like a friendship/marriage could be torn apart by this game
– one drink when the contestant's wife is in the crowd and shows the country who wears the pants in the relationship
– one drink when the contestant looks like they're ready to bail after the first bank offer
– three drinks if they do
– four drinks if Andrew O'Keefe manages to pad out the rest of the show
– two drinks when one of the suitcase holders picks the right amount
– one drink when you reckon they have to edit out the contestant saying, "Fuck!" or if the contestant literally wets themselves when they knock out $200 000
– one drink when anyone has a spot of trouble opening up a suitcase
– one drink if the contestant gives a reason for picking a particular number
– two drinks per reason if this continues past the first ad break
– three drinks if it goes past the second ad
– one drink when Andrew O'Keefe says, "Now we have to go for broke!" when all help seems lost – one drink when the contestant does a really stupid version of "No deal!"
– one drink if the contestant plans to "take the family to [random foreign country]"
– one drink every time Andrew O'Keefe makes a reference to that country
– one drink whenever that trip becomes a bit cheaper (i.e. the whole family travelling around the world becomes contestant and partner travelling around the world, which becomes them on a tour of Australia, which becomes a drive to Queensland, which becomes a bus trip to Sydney, which becomes a free tram ride to the shops to grab a newspaper, which becomes thieving the newspaper from your neighbour). (I think you get the idea...)
– one drink when the news headlines come on (just in case you're not drinking enough)
– two drinks when the decision to deal or not deal is so tough that Andrew O'Keefe calls for an audience vote
– one drink when the contestant takes into serious account a random stranger's opinion regarding how much money they think is in their suitcase
– three drinks if the contestant wins less than the people who picked the right amount in their suitcase

Imagine how many shots you could do for $200,000.

That’d be awesome. I’ll drink to that!