Culprit A: Friendly eyes, WASPy good looks, delightful smile, likes to play peekaboo. Sure, he says all the right things. But as the afternoon christening party wore on, I kept noticing his attention returning to the spirits.
And then there's this other fellow. From the moment I get there, he's all Hail fellow well met! and such. Seems a right gent.
Wants to show me a trick, he says. The lad produces a toy car from his lunchbox. Now that's a damned silly place to be keeping cars, but he's a guest and we're already underbooked and I play along.
He explains the merits of his automobile. Car goes toot toot, he says. Fair point, and whatever else you can say for him, he's not passed out in the sun like Bachelor Number One.
But then this second boy boy reaches into his lunchbox again and produces -- of all things -- a harmonica. That tears it. An instrument of detainees, detainees-to-be and professional obesity John Popper suddenly tootling at a party thrown on behalf of the frozen chosen!
I told the young man that a life at the mercy of either extraordinary rendition or the assholes who lost their Phi Delta charter for instructing a pledge to take the moose's head off the house's wall and ravish it on the lawn in the rear of the house ...
Or was it the other way? said the young lad. What? Ah yes, good show young man, said I, and slapped him on his back in a manner which I'm sure was appreciated. You're a salty one! But alas, as I was saying, as it were, a life at the mercy of the US government or the market's appetite for jam bands is no life for my fair daughter.
I then announced Ah, christening parties! to no man in particular, stepped over the reddening body of Bachelor Number One and stumbled off to make water through a crack in the fence.