12 August 2005

Oh Whiskey, you’re the Devil…

Why the Hell do I insist on drinking hotel bars dry of their Irish whiskey stock? I know damn well that no good can come from it.

It got so out of hand tonight that I was out on the dance floor, (bathroom, lobby, parking lot, etc.), getting my groove on to the mad stylin’s of Phil Collins.

Oh God, I feel so dirty.

On the up side, I did find a likely candidate for an open goon position. One can’t have enough hired goons, you know, and this one really fit the bill; shaved bullet head, dour semi-confused expression and an impressive array of weaponry.

I probably oversold the position, and I shouldn’t have insisted that he try on the uniform in the parking lot, but I happen to think that the old school two-tone hooded Lycra body suits, with wrap around sun glasses are the dog’s balls when it comes to minion clothing.

In any event, he remained interested enough to write down his contact information on the back of the “Indecent exposure” citation that he issued me.

Yeah, everyone’s a freaking dance critic. I’m an artist, dammit, and it was hot out there.

Besides, I’d like to see him do better with only Phil Collins to work with.

And that's the way I likes it.