"Thanks for the gratuity, pal!"
"That pizza guy was a jerk."
"How much did you give him?"
"Zero dollars."
Ring. Pants. Bed. Done.
So that is how it ended... Being mindful of the outcomes of the raids of our forefathers, we naturally chose Normandy to be the site of initial incursion; the heart of the tempest. It was from there, the bathtubs lined with munitions, that the rest of the assault was to be waged.
Dusk was falling on the year 2007 as I waited on a careening, protesting bus headed for the South bank of the Mississippi, all the while calculating the high likelihood that I would pen the post: "Cheese Grater II, Cheddar Believe It" at the onset of 2008. It was cold and damp. At that hour, the locked skyways make a mockery of you, offering monolithic indifference as Shortstuff and I alighted the Metropolitan steed and snuck under the cover of darkness to our post by foot. It was cold.
Inside, after confirming earlier reports that milk and cookies would be served by the hotel staff at the stroke of 10, we laid our plans... and took politically incorrect pictures. Favors were hung, music was brought out, and merriment was made. Following the long tradition of the Beer Chair, a new weapon was introduced to the arsenal with much fanfare: The Beer Glove. Used while in transit about town, the Glove kept spirits high as beer caches were stowed about the burg, in anticipation of a NYE retreat. The beer actually got colder in your hand, the mercury was dropping so fast.
Settling, finally, on the Lodge, we burned the city right to the ground with about 450 other crazed fools. Some poor suckers actually paid $250 for access to couches... which we immediately imposed on. Apparently there were bloody casualties and hospital runs, averted rapes, and even horrifying dancing beer dispensers. 112 pictures were taken with the camera in my charge alone. Of nothing, really.
Then someone convinced me to order two pizzas after darting in and out of traffic in the cold. One with green olives and pepperoni. Suffa me.
Zero dollars.
The next day it took an hour and a half to get french toast. Could have had something to do with the smoking remains of their beachhead, but perhaps karma played a larger role.
Happy 2008.
"How much did you give him?"
"Zero dollars."
Ring. Pants. Bed. Done.
So that is how it ended... Being mindful of the outcomes of the raids of our forefathers, we naturally chose Normandy to be the site of initial incursion; the heart of the tempest. It was from there, the bathtubs lined with munitions, that the rest of the assault was to be waged.
Dusk was falling on the year 2007 as I waited on a careening, protesting bus headed for the South bank of the Mississippi, all the while calculating the high likelihood that I would pen the post: "Cheese Grater II, Cheddar Believe It" at the onset of 2008. It was cold and damp. At that hour, the locked skyways make a mockery of you, offering monolithic indifference as Shortstuff and I alighted the Metropolitan steed and snuck under the cover of darkness to our post by foot. It was cold.
Inside, after confirming earlier reports that milk and cookies would be served by the hotel staff at the stroke of 10, we laid our plans... and took politically incorrect pictures. Favors were hung, music was brought out, and merriment was made. Following the long tradition of the Beer Chair, a new weapon was introduced to the arsenal with much fanfare: The Beer Glove. Used while in transit about town, the Glove kept spirits high as beer caches were stowed about the burg, in anticipation of a NYE retreat. The beer actually got colder in your hand, the mercury was dropping so fast.
Settling, finally, on the Lodge, we burned the city right to the ground with about 450 other crazed fools. Some poor suckers actually paid $250 for access to couches... which we immediately imposed on. Apparently there were bloody casualties and hospital runs, averted rapes, and even horrifying dancing beer dispensers. 112 pictures were taken with the camera in my charge alone. Of nothing, really.Then someone convinced me to order two pizzas after darting in and out of traffic in the cold. One with green olives and pepperoni. Suffa me.
Zero dollars.
The next day it took an hour and a half to get french toast. Could have had something to do with the smoking remains of their beachhead, but perhaps karma played a larger role.
Happy 2008.
99 problems but a hangover ain't one.
Oh wait.
Robert! What are you doing?
...just running into the street!
Posted by
Anonymous |
9:12 PM