Puffy red people
Yep, still got a few more of these angry drunks left to do. In fact, I finished the pencils and inks for all of the remaining nine mid-Feb, but haven't had a chance to finish any due to my day-job turning into an all-day-and-night-hours-of-the-blimmin-week-job.
This guy is a real-life encounter. Toast Martinborough is an event which happens every November, where city folk head out to the vineyards for a day of wine-swilling and music in the sun. And what seems to start as a mellow time with at least delusions of sophistication (maybe even actual sophistication) produces, well, the same outcome as any event in this problematic country that involves lots of people drinking (which I guess could've been simplified to 'every day in New Zealand').
The bus carrying these bloated, sunburned revelers unloads right outside my work where, surprises, I was working late and met this chap with a face like a squarish tomato. He was trying to to tell me something meaningful but was at the point where he couldn't even form noises that resembled words, let alone actual words. He must've gotten lost and started stumbling round the same block repeatedly because I saw him again an hour later, where he failed again to pass on his important knowledge. I'll never know what brilliant gems of wisdom I missed out on.