Thursday, June 10, 2004

Last night after Evil Michael led me astray, forcing me to drink when I otherwise would have been helping elderly nuns wrap bandages for inclusion in care packages for Senegalese refugees, a certain very cute bartender forced me to down three shots. At gunpoint. Or so I remember it.

And then the very cute bartender ripped off his pretend-face, and he turned out to be Satan. Cackling, he forced me to drink six glasses of wine. I believe that was at knifepoint.

When I complained that shots and wine really don't go well together, he poked me with his fiery pitchfork. Then he forced me to give him my Michael's copy of Trust Fund Boys. After inscribing it, of course:
To Satan--

Tu eres guapo!

--Rob Byrnes

And then I took a bus home and packed for my long weekend away from Manhattan.

Which is sort of my explanation for how I ended up with a gash on my back and what feels like a few bruised ribs, but you probably don't need to read the rest of the story to figure it out for yourself.

I have a date with Jet Blue in a few hours, so enjoy your weekend, kids!