Sunday, November 05, 2006

A Night At the Stomach Saloon

It's dark and clammy in the Saloon. Trouble is brewing.

Prime Rib: (approaching the bar) Ah don't like the look of ya. (Sniffs) And Ah shore don't like the way y'all smell, neither.

Tequila: Hey, hombre, we ain't looking to make trouble. We are just trying to relax, eh?

Prime Rib: This here stomach just ain't big enough fur the two of us. Ah'm fixin' ta be the first one in that there ol' small intestine.

Tequila: Look, hermano, we were here first. Well, technically one half of us was here first, but us depressants got to stick together, si? I am sorry to tell you that it will be us into the small intestine first. First come, first served, comprende?

Prime Rib: Not if Ah've got somptin' ta say about it!

A brawl breaks out. It's a nasty one. Halfway through, Prime Rib calls out to Mashed Potatoes and Bread.

Prime Rib: Hey, y'all wanta help me out here? Y'all are just sittin' there like a bunch o' mush.

Mashed Potato: Well, what else did you expect?

Bread: Yeah, I mean, since when do we have any backbone? We're just guys who like to hang loose.

Lettuce: I'm afraid of the spinner, so don't look for bravery from me.

The fight continues long into the night, and at 1:30am, it finally looks as if Tequila is going to win.

Prime Rib: If Ah ain't goin' down, then ain't nobody goin' down!

Tequila: You are loco, hombre!

Prime Rib: Here we go!

And much to Gina's surprise, nobody did go down. In fact, everybody came right back up.

**And, for the record, I had exactly one and a half drinks. They weren't shots. I was in no way, shape, or form, drunk. Just something about the contents of my stomach, as you can see, did not get along.

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