"You know, you saying they're a bunch of bastards just don't have the same ring to it as when anyone else say it," Michael said, coming back to the table with their next round. "I dunno if you wanna say 'helped' neither, I seem t'remember it weren't optional." Although Dingle had been easier to get on with than half of his actual coworkers. Maybe because he didn't play by the rules; and in any case, being picky about it now was pointless. Dingle happened to be the only one at the table who wasn't an ST. Ah, irony.
He set down the glasses in front of his drinking companions with a slightly drunken flourish before sitting down with a thump. "Motor oil," he said by way of explanation. "You want that sweet shit in your drinks, there you go. Never say I didn't do naught for you." Of course the combination of coconut rum and peppermint schnapps, among other things, wasn't sweet so much as flat-out disgusting, but that was what Dingle got for trying to feed them Bailey's earlier. "Al can drink that to chase away the pain of knowing she'll never get a better lay than me."