Late one dark, rainy night, all alone, I realize my hair is drying out.  I jump out of the davenport and grab a bottle of unfiltered/100% Italian/cold pressed/thick, golden liquid and pour it over my bleary head. The stuff sloshes all over the bar stools and I waste time falling down in the mess.  Thinking slowly, I pour the rest in the CUISINART bender AND mix it up.  Then I pass out.

While sobering up I catch Letterman Live and talk on the phone long distance and munch on a PAYDAY.  My friend Susie Case is on a “biz-ness” trip to Malta and wants to tell me about their beer.

She knows lagers make me sick and tired but she still tries to tempt me into embibing.  Is that the word???

I favor sipping sparkling burgundy w/a brandy chaser and she knows darn well I don’t drink…

Shot, I get the munchies thus order another round of candy bars.  Ripped, I tear open the white, blue and orange package and realize my lips are cracking up.  I locate our rolodex and flip open the “C” section.

Suzy answers after 11 and a half ring- dings.

“Chapstick Residence”…

And smacks her lips.

“How may I help you??”

I hang up and dial the Popeye and Olive Oyl  residence in Sweethaven.  Olive can’t talk as Sweetpea’s diaper is full of a spinach green- substance she prefers not to discuss.


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