Not close enough to call a friend, too close to call an acquaintance.

Anyway, after the scary Christian fundamentalists bought his company and let him go, he used his tasty severance package to live on without a job for a while and took to hanging out in the bars with us, drinking and whiling away his days (and, more importantly, his evenings).
We had a lot of fun, in that way that drinking buddies do. Maybe my favorite story about him from those days happened on a night I wasn't out with the boys, but the story was recounted for me later with the kind of side-splitting laughter that makes it hard to tell a story.

It seems he was chatting up a young lovely, and, as these things will, events progressed from nuzzling in a dark corner of the bar to heavy breathing and groping in a parked car down the block.

Thing was, my friend had consumed a largish quantity of spirits and probably eaten next to nothing that day, so he dozed off during the make-out session.

His date was less than amused and woke him up brusquely by screaming and slapping his forehead. "Get the FUCK out the car, asswipe!" she yelled, reaching across him to open the car door. She pushed him out and slammed and locked the car door behind him,
This sudden action returned my friend to an increased level of sobriety. He climbed to his feet and began walking back to the bar.

He was at the door, getting ready to abashedly enter, when a thought struck him.

"Wait a minute! That was my car!"