"The only way to bag a classy lady is to give her two tickets to the gun show... and see if she likes the goods."
Before I finally picked up the new
Guggenheim Grotto album tonight (excellent!), the Yalie and I sat on a bench on the Champs-Elysees in front of Dior and burped. Loudly. Repeatedly. At one point our mini-belch-fest got interrupted by three very drunk French boys (at only 9:30) who first sang us some song, and then told us how beautiful we were. We eventually had to get up and walk away in the interest of our bodily safety -- they were REALLY excited close-talkers; I kept wondering if I was gonna get popped in the nose. In fact, this desire to reserve my broken noses for hockey makes me think that all close-talkers should be obligated to also be pot-smokers or take a regular muscle relaxant. Something. Because close-talking and animated hand gestures/arm-waving do NOT mix, my friends. This is, of course, unlike burping and the Champs-Elysees; those were MADE for each other.
