Life is full of surprising places if you are willing and intoxicated enough to travel there. That being said, allow me to reiterate why making new friends is often a noteworthy experience.

Last Saturday night I decided to treat myself to a steak dinner after the first round of classes commenced.

I rummaged through my Christmas money and behind the six Buffalo Wild Wings gift cards I received, (no joke!) I found a $25 gift card to Outback Steakhouse. Now, if you have ever been to the land down under, you know to never go on a Saturday, especially around dinnertime.

Well, the hunger pangs hit and I pulled into the parking lot around 5:45 p.m. Saturday evening. Everyone and their momma’s brother’s sister’s aunt’s nieces and nephews were there and I parked in the back 40.

“It’ll be an hour-and-a-half wait,” the disheveled waitress said, trying not to step on her own coffee-stained shoelaces.

My head dropped, I took a pager and moped over to a corner booth spot a 400-pound woman so graciously offered me.

After straining to watch the last quarter of the Ravens game on TV, I decided to leave the knitting conversation in search of a better view.

And there I saw it — a wide-open bar. I decided it would be worth my time to sit at the bar, have a drink and wait for my table to be called.

“Got-dammit. Throw the ball, Flacco!” the gentleman in dingy sweatpants and a leather jacket yelled at the TV, shaking his pale fist. I’ll call him Chris for the remainder of the story.

I settled in with a rum and coke (three minutes before happy hour ended, whew) and continued to comfortably watch the game. As the liquor hit my bloodstream, I struck up the conversation with Chris, as it is good bar etiquette. I told him my story and we exchanged some heartfelt words about life and football.

Looking down at my phone, I noticed an hour had passed since I was sitting there, chatting and drinking. I ditched the pager and ordered from the bar — sirloin, mashed potatoes and coconut shrimp.

Previously Chris advised me to ask for a Seth’s (the bartender) special, saying he’d put it on his tab. Feeling a little tipsy, adventurous and broke on a Bud Light budget, I made the request.

As I took my last bite of shrimp Seth brought out a chilled martini glass filled with what looked like chocolate milk. Drinks that require martini glasses aren’t typically my thing, but I rolled with it.

“A butterscotch White Russian?” I asked, puzzled.

Seth nodded and affirmed my guess. I sipped the drink and deemed it a nice dessert.

“You ever had a duck fart?” Chris asked me.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“Seth!” the man yelled at the bartender. “Make us two of them duck farts!”

Seth nodded, mostly at Chris’s level of intoxication, and saluted as confirmation.

Chris and I clinked glasses, took the shot and returned to our conversation about football. His intentions took a different turn and reminded me several times he was at the restaurant every day. He asked if I would come the next day so he could buy me more drinks.

The alcohol had finally escaped my veins and I took offense to his insisted offer. So I stood, slapped a $5 on the bar, gave him “the duck face of disapproval” and walked out, fat and happy.

Days later I made the drink for a few close friends.

“Wow, tasty!” one of them shouted. “Whaddya call it?”

Thinking back to Chris’s creative, yet pushy spirit I said, “Let’s call it a Firequacker. It’s a long story.”