I don't normally give these a title but here it is: Drew and the Case of the Crocodilian Calamity
The fluorescent lights of the office beat down mercilessly on Monday morning, revealing every line-less botox'ed forehead, every under-eye dark circle begging for makeup, and every unfortunate life choice etched onto our weary faces.
But none bore the brunt of Monday's judgment quite like our dear, Drewsy. He shuffled in, a ghostly shade of green, looking like he'd wrestled a badger and the badger had won.
Now, Drew is usually a picture of caffeinated confidence. Give him a sip of coffee and you'd never know he's still half asleep. He's the guy who can talk you into believing that staplers are the future of fashion. But today, his charisma was MIA, replaced by a noticeable wobble and the distinct aroma of regret.
Naturally, the office vultures (well, me -- hello, I'm the Buff gossip columnist!) circled. "Rough weekend, Drew?" chirped Collin, his eyes gleaming with the predatory delight only a lightweight drinker can truly understand.