Tuesday, June 01, 2004

A treatise where rum is concerned. Oh, and watch your language.

Oh my head. My poor, poor head. For those of you who attended the Bash, you understand. For all else, I have a most furtive suggestion; whenever sipping a delicious zombie, try at all costs to remember how much sugar these freaking things have in them. (A hint: a lot.) I realized this as I was floating roughly a quarter mile above myself, riding the sugar high and trying to look down women's shirts (not very effective at an altitude of 1,300 feet.) The Moustashe Bash was a great time, and a special thanks to all the ladies who voluntarily donned 'staches. I love you all.

I think my luck may be turning slightly. At one point on Sunday, I had many lovely ladies hanging on to my every word as I regaled all with the tale of "you need to get your life together." Yep, if I learned anything in my life, it's to take any advantage you can get. And if the Legend of Katie Stumblepants can help me now, I'm prepared to make it happen. On particuar lovely lady was there. Her name is Abigail. Abigail is a Navy pilot. That, coupled with her infectous laugh and shiny blue eyes make her rock. For some reason, she felt the need to beat me up over my fondness for Peter Gabriel. Her wit is quick and pointed. I respect that. I vowed revenge. Oh, and did I get it...

On to Sunday. I decide to make some sauce. And since I'm making sauce, I might as well make a lasagna, right? (Right now, the Mason is nodding his head in complete understanding.) Furthermore, I decide to invite some neighbors, which includes Abigail.

I set the sauce to simmering, and Jason and I head up the street to invite Abby. As we are walking up the street, we decide chicken cutlets would compliment the lasagna perfectly. But, we need the requisite bread crumbs and chicken. We arrive at Abby's door and knock. After a moment, she opens the door, and we invite her. She readily accepts, and asks if she can bring anything. I joke around and say, "well, we could use some chicken breast cutlets and Progresso Italian Style bread crumbs, if you have any!" To which she replies, "well, I've got chicken, but it's frozen, so I'm not sure if it'll work." So, of course (I swear to God, Dan, this was an accident) I reply, "well, may I examine your breasts?"

As she clutched her chest in repulsion, Annapolis came to a grinding halt. The only sound to be heard was Jason laughing and pointing at me.

Although I don't remember, I don't think I cried.

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