Hello, fellow debauchers! Don’t panic about this note. Saturday night’s boozefest is still locked and loaded, except for being pushed back until late afternoon on Sunday. I forgot my mother and I had tickets to Mamma Mia! But, trust me, you lost souls had better rest up those overgrown beer steins you call bodies. If I may refer to these T-shirts I just had made: “White Power.” What? No, they’re supposed to say “Party Pros, Inc., First Annual Walk For Liquor” on the front and “There Is No Cure” on the back. Will anyone feel uncomfortable turning their hate shirt inside out and writing in my funny lines with a marker? I have a marker.

Anyway, here’s an updated version of our inebriation itinerary. Just some minor alterations:

5:00 p.m. I just learned that TOM O’SKELLY’S ALEHOUSE AND GRILLE became a Pier 1 Imports fairly recently. So, I’m thinking we meet up at the papasan chairs, where I’ll do a quickie head count. You might want to buy a nice window treatment while you’re there—after all, this may be your last respectable day on earth!

6:00 p.m. Originally, I had penciled in FATTY’S LOUNGE as our little dive adventure. But when I called to ask whether they could accommodate our posse of drunken professionals, the guy on the phone just said, “No survivors,” and hung up. That’s OK, because we can use this slot to grub up for the journey into the abyss that lies ahead.

This might be a good time to mention the disco bus. As it turns out, the company doesn’t run it on Sundays. But I’ve got my Hyundai Accent. And my sister says she’ll try to lend me the strobe light her daughter had left over from last year’s Drama Club haunted house. I’m not sure if that’s the kind of thing I can plug into the cigarette lighter, though.

We have a pro-vs.-con situation. On one hand, the Accent, unlike the bus, is equipped with side-impact airbags. But on the other hand, since I can’t fit more than five people in my car, the rest of you maniacs will have to cruise with my grandfather. He’s agreed to drive provided that you comport yourselves like ladies and gentlemen, and that you not go on and on about his snoring. He also has several meteorological phobias, one of which is good weather, the ominous atmospheric state that always immediately precedes bad weather.

7:30 p.m. The madness begins. Soon. First, the Corona Convoy has to stop at the CHINESE-AMERICAN VOCATIONAL ADVANCEMENT CENTER, because I have to tutor. I usually work with refugees on Wednesday nights, but I canceled the last two weeks and promised “Shaquille” we’d get together over the weekend. He’s got a big interview coming up, and we need to catch up on occupational vocabulary. Legally, I can’t leave you outside unattended, so I was thinking the bacchanal could move indoors and quietly look at flash cards or something.

9:00 p.m. Y’all want this party started, right? Please keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times, because this coaster-of-the-damned is rollin’ on! However, I’m going to have to first head home and GIVE MY PARAKEET HIS EAR MEDICATION. The good news is that this usually doesn’t take more than 15 minutes or so. The bad news is that I don’t like to wake him if he’s asleep, so I’m eliminating the 10 p.m. and 11 p.m. stops just in case we have to wait it out a little while.

12:00 a.m. Time to slap your inhibitions on the tush and send ‘em on home. After I drop off some videos, we’re off to hot spot THE MANATEE ROOM. (I misread the address of my original pick. Apparently, a visit there would have required a passport, three days, and a much better understanding of hantavirus than most of us probably have at present.) Now, normally you have to know someone to get into the Manatee Room. So, we probably won’t get in. But if I’m not mistaken, there’s an adult movie theater down the block, and you’d think the people there would be able to direct us to a package store in the area. If that doesn’t work, I might ask one of the ladies to seduce a hobo.

That’s it. Those are the only changes. Also, two reminders: Whatever happens on the pub crawl—if anything—stays on the pub crawl. And be sure to return those T-shirts to me before you head home. They’re actually rentals.