“What’s the matter, Wolf?  Are you in pain?”

“Yes.  My right arm is killing me.”

“What now?”

“I have been lifting.”

“At the gym?”

“No, you idiot. At home.  My glass.  Do you know how hard it is to keep raising your right arm, to maneuver the glass to the mouth?”

“Oh for stupid.”

“Oh well, I have my left arm, and that is relatively unscathed, for the moment.”

“Not after the Eagles/Giants game tonight.  Both your arms will be a mess.  Maybe you should invent a device that would allow you to drink without raising one of your ancient, crumbling arms.”

“I have noticed that when I order a drink, I get one of those small straws and it never reaches the bottom of the glass. That is what is wrong with this world. Straws. Way too short.  And I end up picking up the glass to swig down the rest of the drink, thus further damaging the precious muscles in my arms. That’s it.  I am going to manufacture 7 foot straws.”

“What the hell? Who needs a 7 foot straw?”

“It’s for people who like to walk around and mingle while they drink.”

“If you recall, you have done very little walking around or mingling this weekend.  You are a natural born bum.”

“Ok, then, 7 foot straws for weekdays, and 2 foot straws for the bum days.”

“You know, Wolf, you are getting goofy.  Why don’t you use that 7 foot straw to drink right out of the Irish cream bottle that you have on the kitchen counter?  That way, you won’t have to get up every half hour to refill your glass.”

“I would, if there was any left.  But someone, who shall remain anonymous, drank it all.”

“Geez, I wonder who that was.”

“Me too.  It must have been Puff Daddy.  I saw her sleeping on the couch with a 7 foot straw.”

“Puff Daddy?  She doesn’t like Bailey’s.”

“How do you know?”

“She was drinking your last bottle of Apothic Dark.”




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