So one weekend not long after Dimebag was murdered some friends and I went camping way out in the middle of the desert. Not the cool part, we're talkin' the middle of fookin' nowhere type of place. Right about here, see:
We were out there in an old Jeep, some Tacoma, and my WRX. I mention this because I went airborne in my WRX (twice), the Tacoma kept getting stuck, and I bit off a chunk of my tongue riding in the back of the old Jeep. One of those kind of trips.
Anyhow at night we'd crank Pantera and start pouring kerosene on the fire and cheap whisky into our faces. One friend in particular started getting rowdy, a little too rowdy even for our dumbasses, and he pulled a knife out to start threatening anyone that wouldn't swear absolute allegiance to Deadbag. At some point he fell in the fire, which was good, because he was about to get his clock cleaned just so the rest of us could enjoy our own debauchery in peace.
At this point we decided to take away the whisky bottle so I waltzed away with it as someone else distracted the feeb with shadow puppets and I locked it in my car. Locked it, mind you. We all returned to the center and figured "eh, he'll pass out soon enough" but within 10 minutes he was stumbling away from camp, chugging the plastic bottle o' Seagrams all the while. I'm still not sure how he got hold of it, my key was in my pocket this entire time.
So he wandered off, we eventually went to bed thinking "fuck him," and woke up the next morning bleary-eyed and bushy-assed. He made it back at some point to pass out in the dirt, but apparently not before terrorizing some RV a mile or so away banging on their door throughout the evening. These were, indeed, the salad days.
Point being, you can bury the drunk thread, and even kill the search function, but idiots such as myself shall always find it after a few drams o' filth.