Another heartwrenching revelation.

No matter how I try to cultivate the taste for it, I just don't like hard liquor. Oh, if I'm already drunk, I can keep gulping 'em back, but I really prefer beer. Why is this bad? Because there's a distinct limit to how many beers you can sneak into a nightclub, and after they're gone, you have to pay the inflated bar prices. If I was a truly devoted alcoholic, a hip-flask or two could substitute, but alas, it just isn't to be. (/sob story)

Now, back to the subject of people who wish they were girls: my old army-buddy Zack is a twisted and craven soul. In addition to his past as a dock-side prostitute, and his insatiable lust for zoophilia, he is also foolish enough to think I would never make these accusations in public. "Transparent lies", he would say. But seriously, who ya gonna believe, a fine upstanding soul like me, or a chicken(BLEEP)er like him? His sins are many, and his virtues few. Still, there is some hope for him: He agreed to let me crash at his house when I go down to Daniel's wedding in December, so humanity can forgive him for some of his wretched deeds. _Some_ of them...

Update: The balance of Zacky-Wacky's soul has again tipped towards evil. In addition to having the incredibly poor taste of not liking some of the books I loaned him over in Iraq, and liking other books that I, with my superior spiritual awareness, knew to be crap, he has committed this unpardonable sin: He doesn't like Spaghetti-os!!!! If you see that vicious wretch, pimp-slap him on sight.