We could use a sham-wow.

"Fuck!"

We were out of paper towels, napkins, rags...and I'd just spilled some halfway decent whiskey. Angie grabbed the bottle from me as she swung me around in a just-invented dance move.
"Must I remind you, Willy, this is why she's not allowed to handle important things past 3 PM."

"You-you're-your...oh, shit! Untamed whiskey!" I dove to lick up the drink I'd spilled, forgetting to formulate my insult. The taste test again proved to be delicious, even mixed with crumbs from the counter. A few breadcrumbs never hurt anyone, aside from those Albinos with the severe gluten allergy. I paused for a moment to remember that day.Then there was the matter of the floor. It never scrubbed clean. I ripped part of my shirt off to wipe it up which exposed part of my stomach-a mine field of bruises from previous days of fighting. I was always proud of the way I could take a punch, especially from a 260 pound skinhead. Angie handed out the shots as I finished the clean-up. I stood up and grinned. Willy raised his glass the highest, took a deep breath, and slammed. He walked back towards the couch with a quiet smile, like a screaming infant subdued.

The rest of us shrugged and followed suit. I wiped my mouth and turned to Alan with my most devious smile.

"Shall we...fight to assert dominance?"

I wanted to practice my personal favorite, hand-to-hand combat. It always got me in much less trouble then when I'd drop electronics over the interstate, or the kid who works the grounds at the archery range...plus I could always use hand/eye coordination practice. The bottles of whiskey I continually spilled from would agree.

Willy jumped up again.

"Me!"