Me: “Hey, remember that time I egged the shit out of old lady Berman’s Caddie?  Wrote obscenities in shaving cream and soap all over the windshield, then rolled her house in toilet paper?” Ghost of Halloweens past: “I do.” Me: “Man, that was a blast!” Ghost of Halloweens past: “It was.” Me: “Wonder what ever happened to that old bat, anyway.” Ghost of Halloweens past: “Mrs Berman?  She died of

Me: “So.  Your boy dodged a bullet today, eh?” Karl Rove’s breakfast burrito: “Did he?” Me: “Well, he could have indicted on multiple crimes—including outing a covert CIA agent and putting national security at risk—the fallout from which would have been devastating to this Administration and to the Republican party in general.  Not to mention that the specter of Bush’s Brain having its tubby ass frog marched across the White

me: “So. Wanna drink some wine, curl up on the couch, maybe listen to Glass Houses?” double martini: me:  “… ‘she stood on the tracks, waving her arms, leading me to that third rail, shock—quick as a wink, she changed her mind’…” double martini: “Dude. Do I have tits?  Go to bed.  Seriously.  You’re making me uncomfortable.”

me: “Okay, fine, you win.  Now give it a bleedin’ rest, would you?” hangover: “No.” me: ”No?” hangover: “No.” me: me: me: “Dick.”

me: “Man, could I go for some Supertramp right now.” fourth double martini: me: “Or some Styx…” fourth double martini: me: fourth double martini: me:  “… ‘Oh Mama I’m in fear for my life from the long arm of the law –’” fourth double martini: “– Uh huh.  Time to go to bed, brother.”

Merrick: “I AM NOT AN ANIMAL!” Me:  “Tell me something:  why does Neapolitan ice cream contain noticeably less strawberry than it does chocolate or vanilla?  Is strawberry more expensive to make?  Is there some color-conscious Neapolitan ice cream aesthetic I’m unaware of?  Or is there something more to it—some kind of ancient and insidious Naples code spelled out in the dessert?” Merrick:  “I AM A HUMAN BEING!” Me:  “Yeah, I

Me: “I mean, the last thing you want to do is fall victim to identity politics.  Because once you do that, you’re nothing, man.  You’re just like every other Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi in the world.  You’re a type.  A commodity.” Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi: Me: Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi: Me: “Okay, yeah.  Bad example.” Me: “I’ll go get some ice.”

Me: “Because let’s face it, man.  In the cola culture wars, nobody wants to be New Coke.  You know?” Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi: Me: “I mean, did New Coke ever teach the world to sing?  Ever?” Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi: Me: Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi: Me: “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Me: “Why the wild cherry, man?” Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi: Me: “I mean, it just smacks of neediness, y’know?” Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi: Me: “A silly affectation.” Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi: Me: “JUST BE YOU, DIET PEPSI!”

Me: “Throw up your hands, squirt a few tears, foist the entire mess off on the feds—is that how you think it should work?  I mean, is that the federalism our founders worked so hard to incorporate into the Constitution?” Hole: Me:  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Me:  “Fucking hole.”