Of one thing they were certain: they were not driving themselves that night. On the table was more booze than a man could feasibly drink, more wine than a Grecian of the olden, way olden days, could ingest—and they drank it like water. An alcoholic would have a pain in his liver at the sight.

And they were having a blast.

“See, no… see, the secret is that the particle is moving too fast. It defies time!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Biz said, waving away the words. “You can make your millions, oh scientist man–but what is it going to do for humanity?”

Hertz pulled up his nose in mockery, and then took a hearty gulp of pure Irish whiskey. “Huh, ha? Biz, I don’t see how you make the world a better place?”

“I expand minds,” Biz argued, and gestured out from his head with his fingers. “I make consciousness work for the good of mankind.”

“Bullshit,” Hertz said. “I don’t care how good the work is—and how insightful the moral soapboxing is—your shit is wack, yo. It’s not expanding anyone but the potheads.”

“Did you just go slang on me?”

“I did—I did.”

Biz laughed, and reached for his next drink, putting it to his lips, and sucking away more wine than most families own. He laughed at nothing and everything.

“Okay, so, yes, that one novel did have a lot of sex in it. I am not one to make life less than it is. Life has all of that.”

“But is it intellectually stimulating?”

“Is what?”

Hertz and Biz paused for a second, and both shook their heads.

“We are far too drunk,” Hertz said.

“Oh my god, so are you—”

And Biz toppled over the chair. Landing on a social scientist and an anthropologist who had been weakly trying to make out for the past while and had only touched each other’s mouths twice. A geologist awoke slightly from his stupor and muttered something about being a rock and a hard place, and also a rock.

Hertz looked down at the snoring form of his writer friend and snickered. A tiny bubble of snot was coming out of Biz’s nose. Hertz smiled; his mind drifted.

“Little writers, they are so…they are so…”

He caught himself with his elbows, and then collapsed onto the table, snoring loudly for all to hear.

The bartender stood off to the side and shook his head. “Ugh, will someone please tell the punchline? A bunch of scientists walk into a bar—and they are still fucking here!”

—

Special thanks to: Bob Gerkin, Collin Pearman, Dylan Alexander, Jerry Banfield, and Michael The Comic Nerd. 

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