Such Great Heights

When my friends get drunk they tend to fight. With words, fists, sometimes feet but rarely with shirts. A couple weeks ago I got engaged in one of these, in pretty much the most asinine way possible.

I argued with my friend, who I am the same height as, that we are not 5'10.

Which is true. Absolutely. Except I thought we were 5'7" and I was just really honest. Turns out I wear huge boots and he wears thin Converse. His girlfriend, 5'6", made us stand back-to-back like children and then confirmed against us both that we were 4" her tallers.

Well, I measured myself the other day after forgetting several times, and son of a bitch if I'm not 5'8" completely shoeless. In boots I might even be 5'10". No doubt even. My doctor might not be a quack, after all.

This is huge. This is like for a dude finding out his junk is six-point-five inches instead of just six-point-two-five and stretching the truth. Ladies, it's like–and I asked around about this–discovering you've filled out to a 34B from a thirty-two. That's important! Suddenly if you retain a little extra water when you're gushing blood, you can earnestly be a C-cup for one week a month!

Huzzah!