WARNING!!! The following is a RE-POST!
(I know! For shame, huh?!)
Written, with apologies, shortly after bar-close and a good two hours after I sent my husband, Willie, a text that I’d be home shortly…
OK. Hic. Maybe just one more.
See? This is how it starts. I’m sorry – what’s that you say? You think we should meet at the 331 for a couple drinks? Well, sure! I’d love to. But I can’t stay long. I’ve got eggs to candle first thing tomorrow morning, an appointment with a phrenologist at 11:00, a class (Mushrooms, Mushrooms, Mushrooms!: Don’t Fear The Fungus) at noon and a full afternoon of cat-shaving – and I’ve got to be sober for it this time.
But see? This is how it starts. Any time I use the words “but I can’t stay long”, I can almost guarantee that I will still be there when the bartender starts making those grand sweeping gestures towards the front door.
I can’t stay long, my ass.
When will I learn? Wait – is it necessary that I learn? Who do I talk to about getting credit for this “learning”?
No, no, no. Entirely wrong attitude.
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Getting credit for staying until bar close. That’s a great idea! We should all go out, have a couple drinks, take notes, have someone proofread our notes, and then go dancing.
Wait. No. No, no, no, I thought you said you couldn’t stay all night! I thought you had to have someone read your lumpy head or something in the morning!
No, I never said that. I did not say that.
Oh, shut up, will you?
Hey! Have you seen our waitress? We have time for one more, and then I’ve really got to get going.
William Throckmorton the Third’s going to have a fit.
7 hours ago