A tested literary device; a romantic interlude; a scuffle at the local bar

For the opening of today's post, I will start with that old literary trope invented by Dickens: the pile of your mothers and sisters and girlfriends. I emerged from said pile this morning, clawing my way through the sleeping, sexually satisfied bodies of all the women in your life, some supple and some withered and many nude, and dropped, exhausted to my bedroom floor. And when I hit the bedroom floor, this idea came to me:

Next time one of my friends has a date, especially if it were an anxious sort of date, meaning that the friend in question was really desperate to hit it off with the girl—

Like, let's say it was Andy and some girl . . . maybe we could call her Madam M, for Madam Moldova, since he has such a predilection for those Moldavian women—

I would drive by, at first, with a fake mustache. Andy and his date would be strolling down 4th street, cups of coffee warming their hands, and I would scream, "Do 'er!"

And I would speed off into the night. Really, though, I would only speed around the corner, where I would leap out, open the trunk, and pull out the first of many costumes: a sombrero, poncho, and oversized guitar. I would then drive back by, in the other direction, steer with my knees while I strummed the three chords I know and when Andy and his date looked at me, I would yell, "Do 'er!"

And then, back around a corner, and into a Mr. Tastee outfit, and around another corner and into a Zorro costume, and around a nother corner and I'd pull on the freshly harvested skin of Bill Clinton, and then behind a hedge and into a giant atmosphere bubble complete with air compresser and feeding tube, and around another corner and into a giant clockwork Mr. T. Finally Andy and his Moldavian date would seek refuge in a bar, perhaps the Royal Mile. Andy would order a Porter's for himself and a Killian's for the lady, and just as they prepared to sip their brimming drinks—

Just as they prepared to laugh, finally, for the first time in an hour—

As the light caught his eyes and she thought that maybe there was something there—

I would charge madly in through the main door, covered in a plush blue hippopotamus suit, and would dive headlong across the bar, over tables and patrons, kicking off of bar stools, and tackle Andy straight into a Guinness mirror.

So just, you know, keep me informed if any of you get any dates soon.