{randomosity from the evening just passed}

I managed to remember the entirety of "St. Kevin of Glendalough's dead admirer to George W. Bush" and score decently with it as the sacrificial goat for last night's slam. Rockin'. I might toss my hat into the season, or at least a shoe. If it gets me to memorize, it's worth it.

Faced with a drunk, rageful, flailing woman, I had two simultaneous thoughts:
(1) I need to put this wine glass down because she is going to break it and hurt herself.
(2) If she hits me, I might knock her down.

How is it possible that in a city of 6 trillion and a half bars, the drunken morons we eject from Bar 13 end up at Reservoir, the place we frequent every Monday? Are the gods that bored?