Each night, I knock on the inside of the back door to summon Zipper, my Greyhound, for his last exercise. Tonight, my porch door knocked back. To be precise, the door didn't knock but my friend Aaron knocked. He lay in a crumpled mess on the threshold. Zipper sniffed him "en passant" and ran into the yard.
"Even the dog hates me," Aaron moaned. He looked drunk. He smelled drunk. In fact, he smelled fallen down drunk and puked and shat and peed and out-and-out blotto.
"You're crapulent! How dare...
Published on June 27, 2010 07:04