Please don't let me.......

These are the words that I heard on more than one occasion by "tiny," our 6-foot, 6-inch, 350 pound mound-of-a-roommate, prior (and during) one of our typical alcohol-induced nights. The first time I heard it was when the five of us, along with a few other friends, scurried to one of our usual haunts, the Gingerbread Man (or the G-Man, for short).

While in line to enter our watering hole, Tiny looked back at me and utterd the grim phrase "Please don't let me buy any rounds of shots." A few thoughts raced through my mind. First, why would I stop anybody from assisting me in getting drunk? Second, why would I stop anybody from paying for a round of shots? Third, he never listens to a word I say anyway, so why would he start listening now?

It took about 30 minutes, before I had to make my first trip to "the little boys' room." After finishing up the first of many trips to relieve myself (my blatter is the size of a microchip, and processes my beer about the rate of a super-charged pentium IV chip), I returned to the table we had annexed, to discover 2 rounds of shots per person. Immediately, I turned to say something to Tiny, when he covered my mouth with one of his gargantuan hands, and uttered, "Relax, dude!" If I am not mistaken (alcohol has a way of clouding up one's memory), this happened at least a handful more times.

After Tiny and I used "the force" to make our way back to our humble apartment, Tiny once again begged me to not let him "call Gumby's Pizza and order pizza and Pokey sticks on a credit card." You see, Gumby's was the only pizza place in town at the time that offered the option of paying for delivered pizza with a credit card over the phone. Of course, this was a dangerous situation for any college student, but Tiny used his credit card about as often as most people brush their teeth (Tiny's oral hygiene was lacking in college, so I decided not to make the comparison to his tooth-brushing habits or lack thereof).

Once again, thoughts raced through my mind......actually, because of the intoxication, they more realistically crawled through my mind. First, I'm hungry, and if he does order, it is always better to eat free food. Second, Gumby's rules! Third, I have to take another piss.

After taking my 100th bathroom break of the night, I entered the living room to see Tiny getting off of the phone. "Who were you calling," I slurred. "My girlfriend," he grunted back. Now, maybe it was because I was drunk, but I believed him. Normally, Tiny would spend the night at his girlfriend's place, so I should've known something was up. As it turns out, about 25 minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and sure enough, Gumby's had a delivery for a Mr. Robinson. Again, as I was about to turn and say something, Tiny grabbed my mouth with his super-human hand and said, "relax, dude."

Of course, the next morning, Tiny blamed me for making him buy the shots and pizza.