Options: The Secret Life of Steve Jobs by Daniel Lyons Page A

not as drunk as I thought because he says, “Cocknose, I’m sitting right here next to you at a table, remember? We’re not even on a fookin phone.”
    “Oh, what? Mmmmm . . . can’t hear . . . zzzhhhzzhh . . . what? You there? Can you hear me? Zhhhzhhh . . . Hey I’ll call you back, okay?”
    “Seriously, Steve.”
    “Seriously, Bono. Look, I’m telling you this ’cause I’m your friend. You need to get a grip, dude.”
    So we pay our tab—let me clarify; I pay our tab, because in case you didn’t know this, Bono is probably the cheapest person in the entire world, and he never carries money, saying it’s because Jesus never carried money, but really it’s so he never has to pay for anything—and we drive up to the city. Bono insists he’s okay to drive, and maybe it’s an Irish thing or something because, even though he could barely walk out to the car, once he’s behind the wheel he’s fine, even when I’m passing him a joint and he needs to take his eyes off the road for a second to grab it.
    We spend way too much money on dinner at some incredibly overpriced restaurant where the waiters cop all sorts of huge ’tude when I order raw vegetables and insist on having the vegetables presented to me before they’re prepared and served. During dinner I try to tell Bono about the trouble I’m in with the SEC, but he won’t even pay attention.
    “Come on,” he says, “let’s go hit the Mitchell Brothers.” He goes there every time he’s in town and runs straight to the room where you sit in the dark on couches and everybody gets a flashlight and you watch some chick diddle herself and all around the room you can hear losers whacking off in the dark. Last time I had to throw out my shoes afterward, because I’d stepped in so much man gravy (and no, not my own, but thanks for asking, a-hole). But Bono loves it. For years I’ve played along with him on this, but this time I tell him, “Buddy, please, let’s take a rain check.”
    So here’s the thing. We’re driving down Route 280 in the rainstorm and this guy in a big Lexus sedan swerves as he’s changing lanes, and almost hits us. Bono has this total Irish temper, plus he’s shitfaced, and so he starts screaming and says, “Fook this, boyo, I’m gonna stick this fooking Aston Martin up this fooker’s arse!” He floors it. In a nanosecond we’re right on this guy’s rear bumper with our high beams on. Then, I can’t believe it, but Bono hits the guy.
    Just a tap, the first time, but we’re going about eighty and the Lexus starts fishtailing on the wet highway. The guy in the Lexus is freaking out, waving his arms. Bono cackles and he says, “How’s dat fer a little taste of death, eh?” Then he pegs it and hits the guy again, harder this time, and then again, really hard, and the back of the Lexus crumples up like a tin can.
    We all pull over. The guy gets out, and he’s got blood coming out of his eye sockets he’s so pissed. Then we open our doors and he sees who we are. It takes him a few seconds to register it. Then he’s like, “Wait a minute, aren’t you—and aren’t you—”
    We’re standing there, like, “Uh huh, yup, that’s right, and don’t you feel like the world’s biggest turd right now?” He says, “Dude, you guys scared the shit out of me! Oh, man! Ha! You guys are awesome! I’m soooo sorry about getting in your way, I mean seriously, if I’d known, you know, who you were or whatever.”
    Bono says, “Well, tink about dat next toim yer cuttin’ off some bloke and you don’t know who it is, right? Could be Jaysus. Or Boutros Boutros-Ghali or sumfin.”
    The guy gives him this look, like “Boutros who? Bootsie Collins? Huh?” And he says, “Seriously, I just want to say, I’m totally sorry about this.”
    Here’s how classy Bono is. He goes over and shakes the guy’s hand, the rocker handshake with the thumbs up, and he says, “Hey man, it’s kewl, ya know? Seriously, apology accepted.”