"Now you boys be careful," Alice had said as she was going out the door. Ray and John had been friends for 31 years and Ray's wife was well acquainted with their proclivity for getting into trouble.

As soon as he heard Alice's car leave, John pulled out the bottle of Macallan 15. His brother had given him it as a token of gratitude for taking care of their mother. John had consumed about 1/5 of the bottle. He liked the way the whisky tasted and thought Ray would appreciate it also. He left the rest of the bottle to share. When John pulled it out, Ray wanted to know what was the bottle? John told him it was single malt scotch whisky aged 15 years.

"I'll pass. I had a really bad experience with whiskey 30 years ago and haven't touched it since," Ray said.

Ignoring Ray, John poured a small quantity of the Macallan 15 into a glass and handed it to him. Then he poured himself a wee dram in another glass.

"This isn't the same stuff," John said, holding his glass up to the light, noting the light amber color. Then lowering the glass and inhaling the vapors.

"This is going to be good," John observed.

Together they sampled the single malt whisky their glasses contained.

Single malt scotch whisky is much tastier then the cheap whiskey Ray drank in his youth. Ray didn’t think the Macallan 15 was too horrible, in fact he requested another 'taste'. So Ray and John boldly continued, pouring another round, using larger quantities in larger glasses, and another round, and another, . . .

The effects of the scotch whisky begin to manifest themself. John tipped the bottle up, aiming for Ray's glass, was having trouble pouring it.

"That's the last drop," he said, drunkenly surveying the floor. "Damn," he was wondering if, maybe, he should crawl into the TV room. "I, sir, am a light weight."

"This calls for gin-and-tonics?" Ray suggested. They continued on the road to alcoholic annihilation having two glasses each.

"I need to grid my loins," said John, referring to an e-mail he had sent Ray. He had mispelled, "Gird," as, "Grid." He and Ray laughed about that for a few minutes, before Ray got unsteadily to his feet.

"Don't wet yourself, Haole boy," Ray said and lurched in the direction of the TV room.

John was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol he and Ray had been drinking. He was so unsteady on his feet he almost had to crawl to the bathroom. Once there he was feeling too drunk to stand - he had to sit to do his business. Ray was having trouble in the next room.

"You lucky bastard," came from around the corner.

John stood, went to fasten his pants, but couldn’t remove his hands from the wall without falling over. He asked for Ray's assistance. After a few moments Ray lurched in from the TV room. Ray couldn't get the ends of John's belt to meet. In the fog of single malt and gin he hadn’t noticed John's pants had slipped down, the belt now under his butt.

After futilely trying to get the ends of John's belt together for a few minutes, Ray said thickly, "You fat bastard."

At 180 pounds and six feet tall, John was hardly fat, but he was unable to protest Ray's observation. He was concerned with staying upright.

They careened around the corner into the TV room. John collapsed onto the couch while Ray fiddled with the TV and VCR. He finally got them to work, and looked over to ask John what he wanted to watch.

John was laying across the couch, face to the ceiling, eyes closed, snoring.