So the case I was on --- billing 70 or 80 hours a week --- settled last minute. We went out drinking on the company dime --- always the best way, I find. Then we decided to keep on drinking on our own dimes. This entailed a transition from a softly-lit, mahogany-accented, gartered-bartender restaurant/grill to a place on 9th Avenue called the Electric Banana.
I really ought to just leave it there, lest in describing it further you get an accurate impression of its mild skeeziness instead of fervidly picturing the fabulously depraved slum-hole the name implies. Suffice it to say that there was nary a spangled pasty in sight, although there was a jukebox chock-a-bloc with classic rock and some month-old shamrock balloons gently deflating over the bar.
I spent yesterday nursing a vicious hangover. In fact, frankly, I still kind of feel shitty. So I must leave until tomorrow my joyful rededication to your amusement.
Today is my wan rededication to your amusement.
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