Saturday night I finally got a chance to challenge a couple locals to a game of Drink. I should have known it would be ugly from the start. I went with a couple new friends to a casino in town. I got in, found the nearest bar and ordered a bottle of Toohey's (Australian equivalent to PBR; tasty but holds not a candle...) and a shot of Jack Daniels. The bar tender cracks a beer, sets it down in front of me and says, "No shots. Welcome to Newcastle." Not a single bar in the whole beshitted town served spirits by the shot. Mixes drinks and beers only. Had I been able I'd have been tempted to drive to Sydney, but as I have mentioned, my only means of transportation is my mom's neurotic girlfriend who was afraid to put me on the insurance for the rental car. As it was, Newcastle was my only option, and I was determined to make the best of it. Now, they told me that Australians can hold their liquor. I assumed that this meant more than not throwing up. I was mistaken. They certainly had a knack or pounding beers, but after a few they tend to become complete fucking neanderthals. Mind you, I was hanging out with my buddy John, a good kid, but a bit of a bro-man-dude, or a mate-oi-crikey/what the fuck ever they call each other down here. Consequently, all his friends were muscle-necks and juice-heads. After the casino we went to a place called the Brewery and had a few beers, waiting for one of the brahs to get back from the gym or something. They all stood around flexing nuts and comparing notes on the latest creatine powder. I stood around laughing in their faces and trying to get drunk as quick as possible. Fifteen minutes in, one of John's buddies was offering me a 20-dollar bill for a cigarette and spitting on his own shoes. One thing I'll say for the bars out here is this: sluts. And plenty. Old meat-head John was pretty useful when it came to reeling them in, then all that was left was to use the old American accent. We went to a few more bars after that, the final stop being Fanny's, a den of perversion so replete with anonymous nasties that I didn't know what to do with myself. So I parked it between a few of them at the bar and struck up a loud conversation with John about California, where I happen to be from, did you know... ahem...CALIFORNIA. Worked like gangbusters, as one Dave Chappelle might say. And wouldn't you know it, "it's my last night in the country and it would be awesome to hang out tomorrow, but you know how it is. So, if you could drive me home..."

Stockton beach and Works Burgers to soak up the excess Sunday morning. And all the Mormons were off to church for three hours. I stayed in and held a religious ceremony of my own, eating fried egg sandwiches and watching Zombie Strippers. God bless your jugs, Jenna Jameson.