I was tending bar at Mel Cooley's when Alan

I was tending bar at Mel Cooley's when Alan Brady sat down and ordered a Buddy Sorrell on the rocks, but I screwed up and served him a Sally Rogers straight up, and he got pissed

enough to throw it in my face. The gall! The nerve! Who on earth does he think he is? Alan Brady, apparently. Just because he's famous means nothing in this small town.

If that Alan thinks he can treat people however he wanted just because he was famous, Mr.Brady was in for a rude awakening. And I was going to be the one to do it!

I didn't have much time-- chucking a portable siren and alarm clock into a bag and tossing it into the car, I was finally ready to wake Mr. Brady from his hibernation, so I could

Giving third degree burns to whoever stood behind me. I decided to fill a hollow pellet with malic acid, ghost chilli's, diet coke and mentos and catapult my revenge.

Alas, there lay my ruin. The catapult was the poorer siege weapon & my revenge was wasted well short of their walls. Their trebuchets rendered our reserves into fodder. While their

leader climbed victoriously top the top of the heap made from the bodies of my fallen comrades, I wept like a little girl and hid in the closet, plotting my lunch. First, I would

take several tender slices of olive loaf, two slices of white bread, and Reddi Whip to craft an unforgettable sandwich. Next, when the puking from the crowd had died down, I would

loudly eat the aforementioned sandwich abomination before the crowd and wash it down with warm goat's milk. Then with my milk mustache I would walk away like a badass accountant.