We have developed this amazing ability to find the bottom line. What I mean is, when we’re on gchat sneaking conversation between people walking by our desks, we have to cut down our otherwise important and deep conversations to the bare minimum of questions and answers. Ask fast, and think fast.
Sometimes the bottom line can be pretty brutal, though. There’s no grey area. Its not a dotted or fuzzy line. This is the real deal. No holds barred. The bottom line. All other lines are unimportant. We are finders of the bottom line.
Bottom line – Jessie, you’re not going to marry the Greenwich Village falafel mogul. You only flirt with him when you’re drunk, remember? Well actually I guess that’s the problem, you don’t. Never mind marrying him. You’re not even going to meet him for drinks. Because you’re scared that the next time you stop for a falafel after 14 rum and cokes, you might try to make out with him. That would be bad. Bottom line.
So anyway, last weekend my buddy and I decided we were going to get drunk and go to Ziggy’s, the bar down the street. To make a long story short, we did. Actually its not that long of a story. We just drank a lot, and went to the bar. It was kind of a crappy night out, so it was pretty much dead. We still had fun. But then I woke up the next morning asking to die. It kills me to admit this, but I’m way to old for that kind of nonsense. Bottom line.
Also – a few things I feel need to be pointed out. Its Che Chi, not Chee Chee. You called Deeb the Son of Sam. Weird. And also, the last 2 sentences of your post didn’t make any sense at all. Jessie, hopefully you’ll sort out the English language “after the new year.”
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Botton line: I am a beer man.
A couple weeks ago, I took a big step in my 20-something existence. I bought a round of Jager-bombs for a group of friends toward the end of a solid night. At the time it was a sort of alcoholic coming of age, a liquoric quinceanera, a 100 proof cotillion, an fermented ethanolic Bar Mitzvah if you will. I was like Odysseus’ son Telemachus in the Odyssey. Shortly thereafter, however, as I was spooning with my girl Porcelain Patty (no I didn’t go all the way with her), I realized that I’m not a shot man; I don’t ascribe to the throw her back, easy in, easy out technique. I need a beer which I can enjoy slowly, multiple times a night, with increasing revelry at each refill, and in the morning begin my day with a hearty breakfast, regret-free, with no animosity toward my tall, flavorful, bottom-line adult beverage of choice. Cheers to beer, my friends.