Drunken Doofuses Control Space and Time?

What's great about playing in a cover band (by "great" I mean "more sucky than Dracula at a 'Hey, Look! Everybody's Comatose and Can't Move But They Still Have Healthy Blood!' convention") is when you're hitting the finish line - you know, the end of the night - and things get weird. You've left everything on stage because you refuse to cheat the crowd. You feel like a wrung-out dishcloth. The people who've been there with you all night, like National Guardsmen, taking up arms with you, are exhausted as well. Further, they've taken time out of their schedules to come see you, to buy drinks at club, and generally rally around your band (in my case, Party Jones).

So you're sweating, you're exhausted, your knees feel like two overripe grapefruits and you're busting into the second to last song. And then...

Duh Duh DAAAAAAH! Here comes the drunk, angry fat guy stumbling through the front door and wondering when you're going to "get the party started!" And then it hits you - alcohol actually FREEZES TIME! That's my theory, anyway - this guy's been knocking back one Colt .45 after another at some one-room bar that smells like hot vinyl and wet dog and time stopped for him. Then, he decides he's going to go see some live music, but the minute he sets down his last drool-encrusted mug - TIME STARTS AGAIN!

So, when he stumbles into Petes on the Beach and sees Party Jones finishing up the night, this poor, inbred freak has no idea that he's actually mastered time and space. All he can do is wave his hands (like Coco the gorilla saying "I love you!") and slur "you're not done! Keep playing! C'mon, keep it going!"

This frightens me. Where's Stephen Hawkings when you need 'im?