My life as a run-on sentence

[moragmacpherson]

It's Father's Day, my mother just started a phone conversation with the line, "How's your pustule?" (don't ask, but apparently, it's fine), I'm drinking whiskey to recover from the hangover of having been the designated driver last night at my cousin's bachelor party (which meant that I was the one who got to 1) make sure the bouncers didn't beat up the entire groomsmen corps and 2) do the math on how to divvy up the accidental $380 lap dance tab that one of the younger men ran up when they didn't bother to explain to him that it was $20 per song in the VIP rooms), and beta-ing an excellent John-fic which is all-too appropriate for Father's Day and which I'm totally spoiled for right now because I'm the only one who can read it until its BB posting date (and, hmm, maybe I shouldn't be confessing to beta-ing while drinking whiskey, but my grammar stands up to alcohol fairly well).

I hope you're all having lovely, lovely days.

Comments

[moragmacpherson.livejournal.com]

Yeah, I know, right? I remembered to make a joke after about fifteen minutes that I was pretty sure we had lost him, and then I was riffing with one of the few other groomsmen I wasn't related to about how we were going to explain to the guy's wife that he'd just disappeared, and then I got sidetracked when that guy attempted to purchase me a lapdance (only averted by the fact that this club employed Amazons who would have crushed me) and somehow by the time I convinced the bartender to let me back there to go pull the boy out it was in fact an hour and ten minutes later.

The recipient of the dances seemed rather pleased with himself, if embarrassed about costing the rest of the guys so much money. Me, I was amused as hell, once I convinced the bouncers that I wasn't going to let the girl get stiffed (in any sense of the word).

[booster17.livejournal.com]

So grateful you added that last bit - I came this close to spitting out my corned beef, cheese and ketchup sandwich.