Sorry you missed the Bisontennial celebration; a good time was had by all. Well, by me anyway. Hopefully by everyone else as well.
I know you're dying to know, so here it is: I didn't get laid. Where I expected to be weapons-free in a popsy-rich environment, the truth of the matter was that we revelers pretty much had the place to ourselves due to the massive snow storm last night. You could swing a morris dancer in the bar we were in and not hit a soul. As a result, no ROTFF for the Puppy D'Amour. Sigh.
There was a creepy old white guy at the other end of the bar from us, however. I thought about asking him for a hand job but hey, I can get that at home.
So the sex helmet is back on its hook in the closet without any additional gold "P"s painted on the side, the monogrammed tooth dam is carefully folded and put back in the drawer, and no one will admit to knowing what happened to the pail of guac. I shudder to think about it. I hope I wasn't doing my Farrah Fawcett art project imitation again.
Of course the morris dancers didn't show either due to the snow. Double sigh.
cK took some photos last night; it's all a little hazy but if the pix are from the part of the evening when I still had my clothes on I might even post a couple if he'll let me. We'll see.
I'll let you know when the next adventure is scheduled and maybe you can all make that one. And if you absolutely can't wait, come grab me at the redundantly-named Nina's Coffee Cafe and we'll practice. Bring warm money.
Late-breaking news: if you want, go visit jeNC17 for her take on the evening. The guy she's talking about is the guy who didn't give me a hand job. Thank God. He probably stole my guacamole though, the rat.
-- Hulles
