so last fall Rhonda was invited to attend a GOAT ROAST in BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA. since it's fair to say that goat roasting is not a typical east bay activity, Rhonda wore out the treads on her tires and drove at least 400 miles total to make it. all was well with cake and homemade hot sauce, until "that time of the night" came, around 11pm. you know, that time where the reasonable guests have wandered off to bed or better parties, and the remaining ones could be found sleeping in corners, rambling to themselves, or looking for the empty keg. [or, shall we say, walking to the subway with no shoes. i'm looking at YOU, Bruce.] Rhonda herself was sobering up and nodding off and trying to collect the owner of the couch she'd be sleeping on. coats were gathered, hugs were given, but the hosts were nowhere to be found.then, out of the master bedroom, came a man in boxers.
then, giggles and doorslamming. the door opens again, to reveal several more men in boxers, standing close to each other, sitting on laps, removing pants.
clearly, the hosts had been discovered. but were they too busy for good-byes? had an even better party started within the roasting house?
Rhonda wanted out. but she is curiouser than a cat. she said, hey, we're leaving, but what are you guys doing in there?
the answer?
WE'RE LISTENING TO BOB DYLAN'S CHRISTMAS ALBUM.
this stupid thing won't let me embed. santa must be pretty proprietary.
No comments:
Post a Comment