Speaking of crabs, I have two disgusting stories about pubic lice, so if you're eating, save this one for later. Strangely, these two stories, though they take place in very different times and locations, were related to me by a husband and his wife.
The first story involves the husband, Jerry, who used to be in the Navy. For a time he was stationed somewhere in Southeast Asia. I'm not exactly sure where, or when. All I remember is that the prostitutes used to say "Love you no shit Joe."
So anyway, he was out with his buddies on leave once, and this one friend of his met up with this extra-skanky hooker. The other guys were telling him they didn't think it was a good idea but of course he got drunk and left with her anyway.
The next day when he showed back up all nice and sober, he tried to deny that anything had happened. Which may have worked, except they all saw a crab crawling in his moustache.
Next, Jerry's wife was out with the girls at some male strip club somewhere (I think it was the Viewpoint). They were in the front row, enjoying the fact that some strange man was thrusting his package at them repetitively (I like going to female strip clubs with G, but can't imagine myself not laughing at male strippers, I'm sorry). Then, suddenly, Jerry's wife (I believe it was her, anyway, but it could have been her friends, and anyway, does it really matter, Sarah?) feels this sharp burning pain in her eye. This pain lasted through the night and the next day her eye was red and swollen, like she had conjunctivitis. Of course she went to the doctor, who found a...you bet...CRAB in her eye!!!!
Jerry also related several stories of freak deaths on the aircraft carrier he was on, I will relate these at a later date.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Monday, September 10, 2007
Crabs, pro-ball players, and disposable glasses.
G’s friend Mike turned thirty this weekend, and he celebrated by inviting a bunch of his friends to his mom’s beach house in Pacific City. On Saturday morning the guys went crabbing, and in the evening we celebrated. Some highlights:
G and I took the jet ski around Netarts Bay while the others were crabbing, taking occasional trips to the ocean, and around to the boats of our friends. The real fun began, though, when we decided to take the jet ski up inland, and got the intake grate of the ski so choked with weeds, G had to sink in up to his knees in muck to pry about eight dense handfuls of the crap out. Otherwise the motor would burn up, and we were four miles away from the boat ramp at this time. An earlier version of me would have gotten freaked out, but after two-and-a-half years with G, who has this kind of stuff happen all the time with great results, I just sat back and watched, my heart maintaining an even beat.
G’s friend Gaffi is generally a pretty mellow guy, a great cook, but prone to tumbling to the ground when he’s had a bit. This weekend, he fell twice, I heard: once out of the car onto the pavement, and then onto the carpeted floor on his way to bed. He got some pretty nasty rugburns all over his face, and all this happened before three p.m. He was down for the count that night.
Stretch, Mike’s older brother is 6’6”, and has a blow job story for every occasion. By the frequency of his stories, I am really surprised that I haven’t actually seen a girl do a face-plant into his lap and go to town. This weekend, he related the story of his guy friend from childhood trying to get in on the action. And also, during the crabbing portion of the day, there were four boats with guys on them – and only three crabs caught, or so we thought at the time. Stretch and his boating partners disappeared just before the rental boats were due back, and showed up hours later with seventeen more crabs. There’s sure to be a great blow job joke in there, but I’ll save it for another time.
A guy named Covington started the day out amicable and downright pleasant, but he turned out to be an Angry Steve. After a few drinks, he took to insulting everyone in his presence with what he thought were real zingers. For instance, the slight he directed at me was the simple, yet rancorous “teacup,” because I happened to be drinking out of one. Real scathing, folks. Apparently he used to be a pro ball player, though dubiously he was unable or unwilling to tell us what team he’d been on. A google search when I got back into the office turned up – you guessed it, nothing. After he fought with pretty much everyone in the house, Bureson finally slapped him, then punched him in the face, facilitating his departure.
Mike got pissed at everything, as I hear he usually does. During the crabbing jaunt in the bay G splashed him pretty good with the jet ski (he was actually trying to get Gaffi, but hey, Mike was in front of Gaffi). He was none too happy about that, understandably. But what I don’t understand follows - in the early stages of the party, when everyone was getting along and having a good time, he was wandering around in a state of irritability. Usually spending time with his brother culminates in the two of them beating the crap out of each other, but fortunately they both walked away still on speaking terms…this time.
G offered to give Mike’s mom, Francine, a back-cracking, which sent her into a prolonged fit of gasping and holding her back in pain.
Bureson and Malcolm were both attempting to catch the eye of Mike’s eighteen-year-old step-sister, and I think B won…though I’m not sure if he actually won, because by eight o’clock she was kneeling on the bathroom floor taking solace in the coolness of the toilet bowl.
Randy, Mike’s handyman at his home in Tumalo, showed up inexplicably and regaled us with his simple country boy comments. My favorite was this: He was in the kitchen with Francine
when she discovered that one of her expensive glasses had been broken. “You should throw it away,” he suggested.
“But it’s a hundred-dollar glass,” she said, dismayed.
“I wish I had a hundred dollars to throw away,” was his reply. So do I, Randy, so do I.
G and I took the jet ski around Netarts Bay while the others were crabbing, taking occasional trips to the ocean, and around to the boats of our friends. The real fun began, though, when we decided to take the jet ski up inland, and got the intake grate of the ski so choked with weeds, G had to sink in up to his knees in muck to pry about eight dense handfuls of the crap out. Otherwise the motor would burn up, and we were four miles away from the boat ramp at this time. An earlier version of me would have gotten freaked out, but after two-and-a-half years with G, who has this kind of stuff happen all the time with great results, I just sat back and watched, my heart maintaining an even beat.
G’s friend Gaffi is generally a pretty mellow guy, a great cook, but prone to tumbling to the ground when he’s had a bit. This weekend, he fell twice, I heard: once out of the car onto the pavement, and then onto the carpeted floor on his way to bed. He got some pretty nasty rugburns all over his face, and all this happened before three p.m. He was down for the count that night.
Stretch, Mike’s older brother is 6’6”, and has a blow job story for every occasion. By the frequency of his stories, I am really surprised that I haven’t actually seen a girl do a face-plant into his lap and go to town. This weekend, he related the story of his guy friend from childhood trying to get in on the action. And also, during the crabbing portion of the day, there were four boats with guys on them – and only three crabs caught, or so we thought at the time. Stretch and his boating partners disappeared just before the rental boats were due back, and showed up hours later with seventeen more crabs. There’s sure to be a great blow job joke in there, but I’ll save it for another time.
A guy named Covington started the day out amicable and downright pleasant, but he turned out to be an Angry Steve. After a few drinks, he took to insulting everyone in his presence with what he thought were real zingers. For instance, the slight he directed at me was the simple, yet rancorous “teacup,” because I happened to be drinking out of one. Real scathing, folks. Apparently he used to be a pro ball player, though dubiously he was unable or unwilling to tell us what team he’d been on. A google search when I got back into the office turned up – you guessed it, nothing. After he fought with pretty much everyone in the house, Bureson finally slapped him, then punched him in the face, facilitating his departure.
Mike got pissed at everything, as I hear he usually does. During the crabbing jaunt in the bay G splashed him pretty good with the jet ski (he was actually trying to get Gaffi, but hey, Mike was in front of Gaffi). He was none too happy about that, understandably. But what I don’t understand follows - in the early stages of the party, when everyone was getting along and having a good time, he was wandering around in a state of irritability. Usually spending time with his brother culminates in the two of them beating the crap out of each other, but fortunately they both walked away still on speaking terms…this time.
G offered to give Mike’s mom, Francine, a back-cracking, which sent her into a prolonged fit of gasping and holding her back in pain.
Bureson and Malcolm were both attempting to catch the eye of Mike’s eighteen-year-old step-sister, and I think B won…though I’m not sure if he actually won, because by eight o’clock she was kneeling on the bathroom floor taking solace in the coolness of the toilet bowl.
Randy, Mike’s handyman at his home in Tumalo, showed up inexplicably and regaled us with his simple country boy comments. My favorite was this: He was in the kitchen with Francine
when she discovered that one of her expensive glasses had been broken. “You should throw it away,” he suggested.
“But it’s a hundred-dollar glass,” she said, dismayed.
“I wish I had a hundred dollars to throw away,” was his reply. So do I, Randy, so do I.
Barflies
Every bar should have a set of stereotypical barflies.
To wit:
Barnacle Bob - a drunken, preferably older gentleman who showers unwanted attention (usually by way of buying drinks) on girls much younger than he is and way out of his league. Always sits in the same spot and is looked upon good-naturedly by the rest of the regulars. A good character to know if you are a broke young girl.
Wanda or Dee - a woman approximately forty-five years old with stock in Avon. She generally wears a purple tube top with either a leather mini skirt or stretch pants. There is ALWAYS a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. She has a voice made gravelly from years of straight bourbon and chain-smoking, bitches about her teenage kids who are always getting into trouble, and never goes home before closing time.
The Dancer - This guy (or girl) loves to dance, and when you get a couple of drinks into him, he's ready to put on a show. Usually he has the body type and dance moves of Mick Jagger and dances to songs like "Free Bird", "Jukebox Hero" and "Back in Black" with the same tempo and intensity. Very rarely interacts with anyone else; in fact, he sometimes appears to believe he is the only person in the bar. However, if there is a mirror, he will dance with his own reflection.
Angry Steve - Wrath is one of the seven deadly sins, and is embodied by our good friend Steve here. It doesn't matter what you are doing. Steve will be pissed at you. Perhaps that day his girl left him, or his truck (or Camaro) got a flat. You're minding your own business - haven't even noticed him. He glares at you for a long while from across the smoky room, nursing his beer. When the time is right, he will be in your face, his voice raised, the veins standing out on his neck. Most of the time you can't make sense of what he is saying. It won't matter what you say back to him, the result will be the same. If you encounter this guy, make sure your reflexes are honed, you may have to duck.
This list is for entertainment purposes only. If you feel you are similar to Bob, Dee, the Dancer, or Steve, any and all similarities are purely coincidental.
To wit:
Barnacle Bob - a drunken, preferably older gentleman who showers unwanted attention (usually by way of buying drinks) on girls much younger than he is and way out of his league. Always sits in the same spot and is looked upon good-naturedly by the rest of the regulars. A good character to know if you are a broke young girl.
Wanda or Dee - a woman approximately forty-five years old with stock in Avon. She generally wears a purple tube top with either a leather mini skirt or stretch pants. There is ALWAYS a lit cigarette dangling from her lips. She has a voice made gravelly from years of straight bourbon and chain-smoking, bitches about her teenage kids who are always getting into trouble, and never goes home before closing time.
The Dancer - This guy (or girl) loves to dance, and when you get a couple of drinks into him, he's ready to put on a show. Usually he has the body type and dance moves of Mick Jagger and dances to songs like "Free Bird", "Jukebox Hero" and "Back in Black" with the same tempo and intensity. Very rarely interacts with anyone else; in fact, he sometimes appears to believe he is the only person in the bar. However, if there is a mirror, he will dance with his own reflection.
Angry Steve - Wrath is one of the seven deadly sins, and is embodied by our good friend Steve here. It doesn't matter what you are doing. Steve will be pissed at you. Perhaps that day his girl left him, or his truck (or Camaro) got a flat. You're minding your own business - haven't even noticed him. He glares at you for a long while from across the smoky room, nursing his beer. When the time is right, he will be in your face, his voice raised, the veins standing out on his neck. Most of the time you can't make sense of what he is saying. It won't matter what you say back to him, the result will be the same. If you encounter this guy, make sure your reflexes are honed, you may have to duck.
This list is for entertainment purposes only. If you feel you are similar to Bob, Dee, the Dancer, or Steve, any and all similarities are purely coincidental.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Chocolate Rain
When a song begins with "Chocolate Rain...Some stay dry and others feel the pain..." you know it's going to become a big internet hit.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwTZ2xpQwpA
I vote that "Chocolate Rain" is like standing under a leaky sewage pipe, or the diarrhea resulting from last night's Indian food.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EwTZ2xpQwpA
I vote that "Chocolate Rain" is like standing under a leaky sewage pipe, or the diarrhea resulting from last night's Indian food.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Labor Day Shenanigans
My Labor Day weekend was divided into three very separate parts:
G returned from the Philippines a week ago with a nasty case of Bird Flu (or something similar, anyway), so all week he has been sleeping a lot and hacking up loogies the size of baseballs. Finally on Saturday I asked him gingerly if he wanted to go for a drive, just to get out of the house. Luckily he said yes, because this was the start of a wonderfully active weekend!
We drove out to Mosier in the gorge, which is about an hour east of Portland, and decided to go for a hike in the Twin Tunnels. One of the tunnels used to be part of the Historic Columbia River Gorge Highway, but due to the road being narrow and a lack of funds to upkeep it, they turned sections into easy day hikes. Some of the highway is still in use, but kind of peters out once you pass Cascade Locks.
The hike is 4.5 miles, and for the most part is pretty flat, with a very nice paved path which used to be the highway. So it was easy going. The important thing to note is that we started out at about six p.m., and dusk falls around eight. Also, the tunnels have a gate on them.
So we’re walking along, and it’s starting to get dark, but we keep on. With about a mile to go, we meet up with what G originally mistook for a deer or some other animal, because all we saw was this brown thing moving in the bushes. As we neared, we saw it was a woman with a huge gypsy skirt on. She had two small children with her, and appeared to be climbing into the bushes. There was a loud crashing in the bushes (there is a pretty steep embankment covered with trees), then a guy came out onto the road carrying a jogging stroller. I asked, “Did you just climb up?” and they shook their heads; apparently one of the children had decided to pilot the stroller over the edge and down the embankment. Luckily his brother wasn’t riding shotgun.
After exchanging pleasantries, we continued on, reaching the other end of the trail at nautical twilight (the twilight where the sky and the sea look the same, if you didn’t know). It had taken us an hour and a half to walk 4.5 miles, so yep, you guessed it, it got pitch dark as we were walking back. About three miles in, we entertained the very scary thought that perhaps the tunnel gate would be locked. I said I was probably going to sit down and cry for a few minutes at the gate if that was the case (I like to warn G of these things in advance), because my feet were beginning to feel like they had when we’d hiked 11 miles into Haleakala on Maui last year. Fortunately, it wasn’t locked. And it was pleasant seeing the Milky Way, a nice bonus.
We made it back to the car finally, after thinking every leaf falling in the dark forest was a cougar, and promptly went out to eat and then for drinks once we got back to Portland.
On Sunday, we went shooting up near Banks with three of G’s friends, Memo, Nick, and Gaffi. Memo and I both have Romanian-made AK47s, and Nick and Gaffi both have AR15s. G has a shotgun that I got him for Christmas.
So we pulled up to this disused rock quarry that is set aside specifically for shooting in this place called Brown’s Camp, which seems to be a haven for AVers and Meth heads alike (sometimes a little of both). We rolled up in two SUVs and came out with assault rifles, and started plugging away on clay pigeons, feeling like hot shit because the other people there only had .22s and pellet guns.
We weren’t hot shit for long, though, because soon rolls up a caravan of Mexican immigrants. Their duds were nice and their vehicles were top of the line, and I’m not saying anything, but you kind of got the feeling they might have been illegal drug traffickers, if you know what I mean (even their women looked like stereotypical drug hoochies). Not to say that all or very many Mexicans are into that, or are illegal aliens (I have known lots of upstanding Mexicans). But these felt like a crime operation. Especially since they had AKs and such too – but these were fully automatic. It’s easy to modify your AK to make it automatic, I’ve heard, but it’s also prison time. Add this to the fact that these were at best recent citizens of the US and you can imagine it’s a little interesting that they have automatic weapons. So we were very nice to them.
The sheriffs finally caught on to the fact that they were hearing spurts of firings, and quickly camped out at the shooting range. They didn’t mess with the Mexicans, who left totally outgunned them, and who left shortly thereafter. Memo took a picture of me with my AK, so as soon as he sends it, I’ll post it.
We once again ended up having drinks, then crashing out at my house with the cats and a bottle of wine.
On Sunday all the togetherness was taking its toll, but we gamely went to OMSI to see the BodyWorlds exhibit (the one where they have plasticized human cadavers arranged in interesting and artistic shapes, most of them skinless), then went driving around SE Portland. I finally saw Ladd’s Addition, a wonderful neighborhood, and we stopped at Tennessee Red’s for some southern BBQ. Then, the weekend ended on a mellow note with us sitting on the couch side by side using our laptops.
G returned from the Philippines a week ago with a nasty case of Bird Flu (or something similar, anyway), so all week he has been sleeping a lot and hacking up loogies the size of baseballs. Finally on Saturday I asked him gingerly if he wanted to go for a drive, just to get out of the house. Luckily he said yes, because this was the start of a wonderfully active weekend!
We drove out to Mosier in the gorge, which is about an hour east of Portland, and decided to go for a hike in the Twin Tunnels. One of the tunnels used to be part of the Historic Columbia River Gorge Highway, but due to the road being narrow and a lack of funds to upkeep it, they turned sections into easy day hikes. Some of the highway is still in use, but kind of peters out once you pass Cascade Locks.
The hike is 4.5 miles, and for the most part is pretty flat, with a very nice paved path which used to be the highway. So it was easy going. The important thing to note is that we started out at about six p.m., and dusk falls around eight. Also, the tunnels have a gate on them.
So we’re walking along, and it’s starting to get dark, but we keep on. With about a mile to go, we meet up with what G originally mistook for a deer or some other animal, because all we saw was this brown thing moving in the bushes. As we neared, we saw it was a woman with a huge gypsy skirt on. She had two small children with her, and appeared to be climbing into the bushes. There was a loud crashing in the bushes (there is a pretty steep embankment covered with trees), then a guy came out onto the road carrying a jogging stroller. I asked, “Did you just climb up?” and they shook their heads; apparently one of the children had decided to pilot the stroller over the edge and down the embankment. Luckily his brother wasn’t riding shotgun.
After exchanging pleasantries, we continued on, reaching the other end of the trail at nautical twilight (the twilight where the sky and the sea look the same, if you didn’t know). It had taken us an hour and a half to walk 4.5 miles, so yep, you guessed it, it got pitch dark as we were walking back. About three miles in, we entertained the very scary thought that perhaps the tunnel gate would be locked. I said I was probably going to sit down and cry for a few minutes at the gate if that was the case (I like to warn G of these things in advance), because my feet were beginning to feel like they had when we’d hiked 11 miles into Haleakala on Maui last year. Fortunately, it wasn’t locked. And it was pleasant seeing the Milky Way, a nice bonus.
We made it back to the car finally, after thinking every leaf falling in the dark forest was a cougar, and promptly went out to eat and then for drinks once we got back to Portland.
On Sunday, we went shooting up near Banks with three of G’s friends, Memo, Nick, and Gaffi. Memo and I both have Romanian-made AK47s, and Nick and Gaffi both have AR15s. G has a shotgun that I got him for Christmas.
So we pulled up to this disused rock quarry that is set aside specifically for shooting in this place called Brown’s Camp, which seems to be a haven for AVers and Meth heads alike (sometimes a little of both). We rolled up in two SUVs and came out with assault rifles, and started plugging away on clay pigeons, feeling like hot shit because the other people there only had .22s and pellet guns.
We weren’t hot shit for long, though, because soon rolls up a caravan of Mexican immigrants. Their duds were nice and their vehicles were top of the line, and I’m not saying anything, but you kind of got the feeling they might have been illegal drug traffickers, if you know what I mean (even their women looked like stereotypical drug hoochies). Not to say that all or very many Mexicans are into that, or are illegal aliens (I have known lots of upstanding Mexicans). But these felt like a crime operation. Especially since they had AKs and such too – but these were fully automatic. It’s easy to modify your AK to make it automatic, I’ve heard, but it’s also prison time. Add this to the fact that these were at best recent citizens of the US and you can imagine it’s a little interesting that they have automatic weapons. So we were very nice to them.
The sheriffs finally caught on to the fact that they were hearing spurts of firings, and quickly camped out at the shooting range. They didn’t mess with the Mexicans, who left totally outgunned them, and who left shortly thereafter. Memo took a picture of me with my AK, so as soon as he sends it, I’ll post it.
We once again ended up having drinks, then crashing out at my house with the cats and a bottle of wine.
On Sunday all the togetherness was taking its toll, but we gamely went to OMSI to see the BodyWorlds exhibit (the one where they have plasticized human cadavers arranged in interesting and artistic shapes, most of them skinless), then went driving around SE Portland. I finally saw Ladd’s Addition, a wonderful neighborhood, and we stopped at Tennessee Red’s for some southern BBQ. Then, the weekend ended on a mellow note with us sitting on the couch side by side using our laptops.
Where's Grandma?
My friend Julio related an amusing true tale once.
He lives in Guadalajara, and if you've ever been there, chaos reigns in some parts (though the Minerva Fountain area is quite nice). Like many traditional Mexican families, his mom, grandma, and sisters have lived together for ages. Julio himself lived with them until he married, and now lives blissfully I'm sure without all the riff-raff hanging about breathing down his neck, and that of Viviana.
Anyhoo, one day, his grandmother wasn't at home anymore. One of the sisters saw her leave the house to go on an errand, and, well, she just never returned. For a week (A WEEK!) the entire family combed the dusty streets of Guadalajara - which is Mexico's second largest city - to no avail. Of course, you can imagine the thoughts running through their heads. Is grandma in a ditch somewhere? Did she get kidnapped and sold in Tijuana to a guy that specializes in geriatric donkey shows? Is she hungry? Speaking of hungry, whos going to make the posole now?
Finally they found her. She had grown tired of living with them and had checked herself into a retirement home without mentioning it to anyone. Now that's a woman who knows how to get things done!
He lives in Guadalajara, and if you've ever been there, chaos reigns in some parts (though the Minerva Fountain area is quite nice). Like many traditional Mexican families, his mom, grandma, and sisters have lived together for ages. Julio himself lived with them until he married, and now lives blissfully I'm sure without all the riff-raff hanging about breathing down his neck, and that of Viviana.
Anyhoo, one day, his grandmother wasn't at home anymore. One of the sisters saw her leave the house to go on an errand, and, well, she just never returned. For a week (A WEEK!) the entire family combed the dusty streets of Guadalajara - which is Mexico's second largest city - to no avail. Of course, you can imagine the thoughts running through their heads. Is grandma in a ditch somewhere? Did she get kidnapped and sold in Tijuana to a guy that specializes in geriatric donkey shows? Is she hungry? Speaking of hungry, whos going to make the posole now?
Finally they found her. She had grown tired of living with them and had checked herself into a retirement home without mentioning it to anyone. Now that's a woman who knows how to get things done!
Chicken Pie
I was at a pet store, oh, like two years ago, and there was a middle-aged woman with the prerequisite tiny dog squashed into her hand bag or something equally stupid to me (I like malamutes, and there's no way in hell I'm lugging one around in a handbag) standing in line. The cashier was taking a long time, much like the crispy duck at Hunan's, so to make conversation, a guy next to the lady turned to her and inquired, "oh, what's your dog's name?"
"Sweetie Pie," came the reply.
"Chicken Pie?" the guy responded incredulously, screwing up his face in confusion. I about died, and earnestly began to think of how I could incorporate that exchange into the real world, so as to spread the amusement around.
I got my chance only a short time later. One night at the Green Room on Thurman, I had about three too many Jamesons on the rocks (for those of you who don't know, Jameson is a CATHOLIC whiskey, and Bushmills is a PROTESTANT one. Now, I consider myself pretty non-partisan generally, but I was raised Catholic, so goddamn it, if I am going to drink whiskey it's going to be the Catholic stuff. Though, if I had to take a taste test I probably wouldn't know the difference). I (with the help of G, who was similarly three sheets to the wind) began asking random strangers if they had a dog. Upon the affirmative reply, the stranger would be asked what said dog's name was. Regardless of the true answer, we responded with just the same inflection as the guy in the store, "Chicken Pie? What kind of name is that?" To which, the more lucid ones would say, "Sure, whatever." But the drunken ones would launch into a conversation straight out of an Abbot and Costello act. "No, it's Panzer." After more "yeah, Chicken Pie, that's really weird, I must say", they would begin to argue. "I said Panzer, not Chicken Pie!" We would nod knowingly and maybe get one more comment in before they simply turned away in disgust.
Hours of entertainment, let me tell you. It's those simple pleasures.
"Sweetie Pie," came the reply.
"Chicken Pie?" the guy responded incredulously, screwing up his face in confusion. I about died, and earnestly began to think of how I could incorporate that exchange into the real world, so as to spread the amusement around.
I got my chance only a short time later. One night at the Green Room on Thurman, I had about three too many Jamesons on the rocks (for those of you who don't know, Jameson is a CATHOLIC whiskey, and Bushmills is a PROTESTANT one. Now, I consider myself pretty non-partisan generally, but I was raised Catholic, so goddamn it, if I am going to drink whiskey it's going to be the Catholic stuff. Though, if I had to take a taste test I probably wouldn't know the difference). I (with the help of G, who was similarly three sheets to the wind) began asking random strangers if they had a dog. Upon the affirmative reply, the stranger would be asked what said dog's name was. Regardless of the true answer, we responded with just the same inflection as the guy in the store, "Chicken Pie? What kind of name is that?" To which, the more lucid ones would say, "Sure, whatever." But the drunken ones would launch into a conversation straight out of an Abbot and Costello act. "No, it's Panzer." After more "yeah, Chicken Pie, that's really weird, I must say", they would begin to argue. "I said Panzer, not Chicken Pie!" We would nod knowingly and maybe get one more comment in before they simply turned away in disgust.
Hours of entertainment, let me tell you. It's those simple pleasures.
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