Stingette.

My sister has a winebar in the next town, over that way.

She's got a bun in the oven so I lent a hand pouring fermented grape and barley juice, tending to the bar, customers, chatting up the lovely ladies, single or not!

Just so happens, Hollywood set up next door in an old, vintage theatre filming their latest piece of crap. Rumour had it, Sting's eldest daughter was in the flick.

Well guess who came around to the winebar. None other than Ms. Fuschia Sumner. I had the pleasure of serving her. I knew it was her right away; you see, there aren't many Londoners running around small-town.

Get your mind out of the gutter. I only served her wine. Although I did my best at the Arabic art of seduction by eyes.

Fuschia, if you should read this, sure I'll go out with you sometime, give me a call ;-)

Please don't punch me in the Face

At that same bar, I ran into my highschool enemy.

Apparently he is a hippy now: spent a few years in Santa Cruz smoking dope.

Shockingly, he didn't want to punch me in the face, fortunately. A little disappointed, I felt silly for having actively avoided him all these years, all for nothing.

In the end, I bought him and his a buddy a beer and left him in peace. I thought it a nice gesture and I'm sure he appreciated it, much better than the knuckle sandwich i gave him last time. :-D

Gimme that, Bitch!

Last night, as the clock struck 2am, the security guard, who looked like a doberman pincher on roids, viciously ripped my ice cold Sierra Nevada Pale Ale out my hand. Apparently, in the not so grand state o Californie, the sale, purchase or consumption of an alcohol beverage at a bar is strictly prohibited between the wee hours of 2am and 6am. The feckin' bastards!