It was more boobs than I’d ever seen in one place—other than that time on a mission trip when four of us had to shower at once in the converted motel they used to house Habitat for Humanity volunteers. And that wasn’t even getting into what was going on down below, which seemed to be the finest iridescent thongs that money could buy. In addition to the boobs, there was a nacho cheese machine behind the bar, lots of domestic beer, and a box of Fireball on every table. That’s right: a box. With a little spigot. Like wine.
