One last night at the Wal (and a quasi-mugging)

I got mugged last night – sort of.
I was physically struck, although not that hard. He also didn’t take anything from me, which I guess is sort of a requirement for it to count as a mugging.
But it’s not about what he took from me physically, it’s about what he stole from me emotionally.
The Garrett Hylton Farewell Tour made its stop at the Wal, a place that will always have a spot in the softest region of my part, and I was accosted on the walk back to Scott’s apartment.
I was moseying along Sierra Street near 15th, minding my own business and humming Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” – I don’t know why – when I was struck with a forearm in the back of the head. Because of my already diminished ability to stay balanced, I fell, at which point he kicked me in the ribs.
I popped back up expecting to get my ass kicked only to watch as a smallish guy in khakis running down the hill back toward the university.
I thought about chasing him, but you all know how I feel about running for non-workout purposes.

I sat down on the curb for a minutes, angry at what had transpired.
Being the melodramatic overanalyzer that I am, I sent out text messages that were no doubt giving my incident much more gravity than it deserved.
After a brief moment of reflection and stewing, I realized how funny the whole thing was.
It wasn't so much of a mugging as a hit-and-run (hit-kick-and-run, to be precise).
I mean, quasi-kicking somebody’s ass is kind of humorous in itself.
Other than slightly soar ribs, I’m unharmed.
And I have a cool drinking story to add to my rotation that includes the K-Fed respects the 21 story, the human bowling experiment, and another incident that I can only describe as the naked absinthe hallucination incident (don’t worry mom, my clothes stayed on for this one).
So thank you, anonymous assailant, for capping a pretty good night with a really random story.
Actually, he did far less damage to my body than I did.
When I woke up this morning I didn’t even notice my injured ribs, mostly because my head felt like I’d taken an arrow through the frontal lobe and my stomach felt like there was some sort of alcohol civil war going on inside.
I also had this weird pang in the area I think my liver is, but my skin’s not yellow yet so I’m not too concerned.
Of course, I told Scott my goal for the evening was to “become acquainted with the concept of oblivion through the consumption of massive amounts of alcohol,” so I guess I’d have to call the night a fantastic success.
Scott and I went to the Wal alone, Dave made a quick appearance, and started taking shots, drinking beers and watching the tricycle races.
About halfway through the evening a birthday party arrived, so I naturally wanted to get in on the mayhem. Turns out the birthday boy was from Elko, so we started discussing the merits of kalimoxos (coke and wine) as an underrated mixed beverage.
This turned into more shots, some philosophical conversations about literature, and, inevitably, Elko High School Football (Isn’t it weird how about 80 percent of all men between 18 and 30 lost their college scholarship after blowing a knee?).
At the end of the night I closed out our tab, which amounted to $60.
Not so bad, right?
Well, it was dollar beer and shot night.
I’m expecting a cease and desist letter from my liver any minute now.