Wednesday, January 17, 2007

The Wingman Cometh.

I am sipping a beer, the first in two - 3 weeks (been sick, ya know). I have just mopped the floor, scrubbed the sinks, went all Hazmat on the toilet, and vacuumed the rugs (well, as much as I could do until the fucker started smoking. Instead of sweet Lilac, my apartment current smells of burnt rubber and melted steel).

"Mac, what's up with the uncharacteristic cleaning binge?" you may ask? (And, beeyatch, you know it's love when I clean the bathroom!!!)

As mentioned before, my last and bestest Wing man is tying the knot (clipping his wings?) in Scotland (I think that's somewhere east of New York?). However, before the falcon gets his claw ball 'n' chained, we Chicagoans are blessed with his presence for the weekend.

Will this be the Final Lost Weekend (with or without extension?) Or merely a mournful tippling of amber and black doubles and pints, a wake of sorts, the Death of a Single Man?

Dinner eaten both in and out (and in again). Dive bars dived into. Laughs laughed. Old friends will trade stories and lies of yore, and new friends met with smiles (and judgement...ha ha!). Pins will be toppled. All-in-all, much fun shall be had by all.

The cherry on top will be the kidnapping on Sunday, when we refuse to let him return to the soggy north of the U.K.

If you see us out, buy us a drink or pony-up for bail, yo!

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