I know, man. I know. We need to go get some drinks after work at that new dive bar downtown with the really good wings and the waitress who "wants your hog." I get it. You really want to go. And you have no other friends.
But I really have no intentions of going to a Happy Hour with you. Ever. Partly because I'm all set with my hepatitis levels, but mostly because the thought of sitting next to you in a public place while you loudly proclaim to passersby that you get "more ass than a toilet seat" is as appealing as literally giving you one of my testicles. Seriously, take one if it will get you off my case about this.
In fact, I'll give you both of them and one month's rent if you promise never to use the phrase "locked, cocked, and ready to rock" again while we're near people with ears.