"When our great grandspawn tell the tales of this day, huddled around the tire fire in the flickering light of the long dead moon, they will whisper it like a prayer - a hymn to the forgotten Cinco, the "lost rager," the day of the orphan brewskis. They'll shudder at the thought of the unchugged pitchers of frozen strawberry margs at Señor Frog’s, the uneaten complimentary queso dip. Then, in honor of the brave men and women who stayed the fuck inside like responsible people, they will ceremoniously bash their heads with an open fist until it's time to find and eat a mutated jackal."

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