A cocktail party. A nice house. There were a lot of young people in fancy clothes, drinking fancy drinks, using fancy words like “sazerac.”
My wife was buying a drink when she whispered to me, “Look honey, they have sazeracs.”
“How about that?” I said. “My mother had those once, but she had surgery to remove them.”
My buddy, Phillip, and his wife were with us. Phillip’s wife let me have a sip of her sazerac and I almost gagged because it tasted like Windex.
“You know what?” said my wife. “I wish we woulda gone to Red Lobster, I feel old around these people.”
“Me too,” said Phil’s wife, Miranda.
“Let’s leave,” Phil suggested. “Besides, it looks like all these people do for fun is count carbs.”
“We can’t just leave,” said Miranda. “They’ve already seen us, they KNOW we’re here.”
So we were stuck.
The house was in a nice part of town. The rumors going around the room were all about the famous interior designer who had decorated
the home—whose name I can’t use. The designer is from L.A., and flew in just to “stage” this house for the party.
Each room had impressive furniture, and impressive photographs on the walls. The photographs featured the young couple, posing before exotic scenery, wearing skimpy bathing suits.
“Looks like they’ve been to Rome,” I said.
“And the Bahamas,” said Miranda.
“And this girl definitely ain’t a Freewill Baptist,” said Phillip, who was raised as a Freewill Baptist against his will.
My wife sipped her glass and made a sour face. “I think there’s something wrong with my sazerac. It tastes like Pledge furniture polish.”
“At least yours tastes like Pledge,” said Miranda. “Mine tastes like Four-Oh-Nine Degreaser.”
But Phillip and I were not interested in sazeracs, we found a place in the courtyard where we held Michelob Ultras…