I think my neighbor saw my pecker

Those who know me and know me well, understand that I undergo a transformation somewhere between beers number 6 and 8. It is like a molting process where I go from Ned Flanders to Homer Simpson in about 45 minutes. I don't know when or where all of this began, but it is obviously here to stay. Fortunately for myself and others around me, I rarely drink hard liquor. My mother says that I too immature to drink the hard stuff. Besides, beer gets me in enough trouble as it is...physically, emotionally, criminally, etc. About the only consolation to this is the fact that some 90% of my friends, family, and colleagues are on the same sinking ship that I have boarded. We all know the old "once you pee you break the seal" deal. Well, I am not sure if it is a shrinking bladder or enlarged prostate due to the aging process, but beer runs through me like shit through a goose. It is probably both, but I will probably never know because I will never have my prostate checked again since its' initial milking back in 2002. I will spare the reader the details.
Since Christian and I have moved into the new house I don't go out as often. I do not frequent my barstool at Canon Grill nor my space in the back corner of the Hillcrest Fountain on a nightly basis. I tend to do much of my drinking at...get ready for this...HOME. I have been spending some of my evenings drinking beers and cursing the news with my dog Zooey. Zooey sits and growls at the local wildlife and constantly begs to go outside for no reason but to irritate me. Every 30 minutes or so I give in and let her out...and this is when I go out to smoke and make sure she doesn't fall in the pool. And no, she can't swim. For some reason, the second that I light a cigarette and step outside, I have to urinate. Why? I'm not sure but I kinda covered that earlier. The problem that occurs is the fact that somewhere between my sixth and eighth beer, I lose all inhibitions and piss outside. Even though my bathroom is three meters away, I would rather go outside. Well, you see, I have neighbors...really nice neighbors. The all-american textbook neighbors. We'll call them...say Jim and Betty...They are such well-rounded goodie goodies that it is enough to make one vomit. They don't appear to drink, cuss, or do any of the things that make me an asshole. Complete with flower boxes in the windows and a bright and shiney Saturn in the driveway. Not to mention a Jesus statue in little Billy's bedroom window. Well, last week while I was taking the dog out and having a smoke I...whipped IT out... with smoke and beer and mister you-know who in hand. And in mid-backstretch, burp, and exhale...Betty saw my pecker. Yep, she was planting some flowers right at dusk. What did I do you might ask? I simply smiled and raised my beer. Here's to beer and here's to nice neighbors.