It was my fault, even though it was an accident.  Reached down and pulled out one of the Mickey’s hand grenades.  You remember?  The little green bottles with the pop-top, the kind you could never get open unless you pulled the shit out of it, brought it in tight to your chest and yanked harder than you should, spraying vile malt liquor all over yourself and everyone else.

Talking to Big Matt, looking at my grenade.  Talking to Big Matt, pulling hard on the top.  Talking to Big Matt, that bastard flew off and it shot like a fire hose.  Covered him.  His hair dripped to his nose, dripped to his clothes, and he looked at me, soaking.  Didn’t say a word, just pulled out a full Natty Light, looking right in my eyes, and started shaking.

**
Don’t you just love it when the Southern Legitimacy Statement is longer than the story itself?