Okay, Eloise, I'll give it a shot:
While boozebonding with some friends last week, I found myself beereft and ended up getting a nasty PBR scar on my shin after hurdling in the Special Olympics on my way to the keg for a refill...or so I have been told. Alcoheimers prevents me from recalling the details.
Bah! Too many words. I find it much more efficient to say:
My friends laughed at me the morning after I mangled my leg on a lawnchair that came between me and my thirty-fourth beer, but I don't remember a thing.
Much better. You see, the sport of professional drinking requires one to find every possible way to conserve energy before, during and after a scheduled drinking meet. Wasting it on unnecessary syllables tends to leave you too tired to make witty comments or poke fun at the shortcomings of those around you, both of which are very effective scoring plays in a regulation drinking session.
So, if it's all the same to you, I'll stick with the traditional English language to relate my drunken deeds of derring-do. You never know when I might need that extra burst of energy to let loose with a game winning zinger...at the Elder's expense, of course.
On the other hand, Ebonics does have some merit.
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