|
Graemes drink problem gets him into another fine mess...
|
|
|
|
 | |  |
| It is I, Captain Cleetus replete with my Cider visor, vodka compass and lager cape+integral futility belt | |
 | |  |
|
 |
| | |
| Hey- pretty boy, yoohoo! are you all messed up and in need of a ride home? | |
| | |
|
|
|
|
Captain Cleetus on the lookout for clues... as to where the hell he's been for the last 4 hours.
|
|
|
|
| | |
| Whoa, how did I get here? where the fuck are my boxers and why do I have the urge to scrub my ass till it bleeds? | |
| | |
|
 |
| | |
| That'll be Quentin again. - feel free to borrow my Anal Elixir | |
| | |
|
|
|
|
Graeme comes to terms with his newfound vow of abstention from alcohol. Ian offers sage advice.
|
|
|
|
| | |
| Don't worry, I'm sure there's a rational explanation out there somewhere, one that preferably doesn't involve penetration. | |
| | |
|
|
| | |
| Just keep telling yourself that... | |
| | |
|
|
|
