I'm booked. I'm Bash at the Boat Bound. Why do I think this trip is gonna be harder on my body than even the Vegas jaunts. Why do I think I'll be playing the role of Derek and stage a minimum of one "Puke and Rally"? Will my long-time drinking buddy, Donny, who will allegedly be joining us from New England, be horrified at the event or will he feel as though he's stumbled into a coven of like-mided degenerates and find himself at sunrise with his arms around Pauly and drizz, the three of them singing, "We Are the World?"
The possibilites are infinite.
See The Good Sir Reverend AlCantHang for all the juicy details.
I was perusing the beer list at Le Boathouse (it's French, right?) and was reminded of a cool thing that happened the other day. I was invited over to a woman's condo (hear that ladies?) and she listed for me the adult beverages she would have at my disposal, ending with, simply, "beer."
When I got there, 90 degrees in the shade, she pulled out some Chimay Grand Reserve and said, "Is this okay?"
Um, yeah. That's okay. I sure can pick 'em.