C’est La Vie

It was raining like a son of a bitch and I had had maybe one too many, after work brewskis, with the boys at Sammy’s.

Boys will be boys, right? And it was Friday night for Christ’s  sake!

But I knew Lizzy would be pissed and the last thing I wanted to do was get a ticket or God help me wrap the Camry around a god damned telephone pole.

So I’m being careful. I mean really, stupid careful. Like maybe, I’m doin’ 20 coming up to the intersection with Third.

And for some reason,  it’s lit up like some God dammed Super Bowl halftime show!

First thought. . .  it’s a fuckin’ cop drunk drivin’ stop.

Where are the the fuck are my Tic Tacs?

But instead of cops, in the middle of the intersection, I kid you not, are these three doors set at an angle.  In a row.

How the fuck did they all end up all standing up on end after falling off a truck?

And as I get closer, I realize there’s  a man standing out in front of the doors.

With a microphone in his hand and a shit eating grin on his face.

In the pouring rain, under the bright lights, no less.

But he’s bone fuckin’  dry.

And. .  it’s,. . .wait for it,. . .Monty. .  fuckin’. .  Hall.

I kid you not.

So I stop and  get out of the car. What the fuck else am I going to do?

Run him down?

It’s. . . Monty. . . fuckin’. .   Hall, for Christ’s sake!. . .  And of course, I went with my  lucky number.

Door Number 3.

Et voila!

 On our yacht,  moored off our villa, overlooking the Mediterranean, I sip a vibrant piquant rose, and think back on those frolicsome Friday nights at Chez Sammy’s with my cohorts.