The first rule about the apocalyptic party is, don’t talk about the apocalyptic party. That’s about as far as I’m allowed to go with that, otherwise I could potentially get a friend into trouble. Perhaps if I publish a book at some point I’ll get round to telling you about it. What I can say is in no way did it involve getting drunk in a cold war nuclear fall out shelter. At no time were we dancing to Call Me Maybe? in an underground radio room. I was never jumping around having my picture taken with a gas mask on. I assure you it was much more sensible than that.
Instead we’re in our local watering hole celebrating the end of prohibition. It’s not quite taken full effect, but it’s on its way out, and certain liquors can now be bought over the bar. You can imagine it’s getting rowdy as the boot has been lifted and held tide breaks through. The Cat has decided to join us, but for all my attempts, and in spite of appearing to blow hot once again, she’s just toying with me. A little dangled Stuart on the end of a string, its sole function is to entertain the claws of the feline. She has demanded that the only way I can take her out for a meal is if it’s at the most expensive restaurant in Olomouc. Then she changes her mind when I say that it isn’t a problem. She’s also taken an interest in giving me chinese burns on my damaged arm for some reason, and slapping the scars from my penis fall two nights previous. After trying to the last, I decide enough is enough and I leave for the more welcoming prospect of my bed. It’s there under the weighty duress of alcohol that I finally choose to give up. Nobody should be this much hard work, especially if I am already.
Project Mayhem
The first rule about the apocalyptic party is, don’t talk about the apocalyptic party. That’s about as far as I’m allowed to go with that, otherwise I could potentially get a friend into trouble. Perhaps if I publish a book at some point I’ll get round to telling you about it. What I can say is in no way did it involve getting drunk in a cold war nuclear fall out shelter. At no time were we dancing to Call Me Maybe? in an underground radio room. I was never jumping around having my picture taken with a gas mask on. I assure you it was much more sensible than that.
Instead we’re in our local watering hole celebrating the end of prohibition. It’s not quite taken full effect, but it’s on its way out, and certain liquors can now be bought over the bar. You can imagine it’s getting rowdy as the boot has been lifted and held tide breaks through. The Cat has decided to join us, but for all my attempts, and in spite of appearing to blow hot once again, she’s just toying with me. A little dangled Stuart on the end of a string, its sole function is to entertain the claws of the feline. She has demanded that the only way I can take her out for a meal is if it’s at the most expensive restaurant in Olomouc. Then she changes her mind when I say that it isn’t a problem. She’s also taken an interest in giving me chinese burns on my damaged arm for some reason, and slapping the scars from my penis fall two nights previous. After trying to the last, I decide enough is enough and I leave for the more welcoming prospect of my bed. It’s there under the weighty duress of alcohol that I finally choose to give up. Nobody should be this much hard work, especially if I am already.