nder the location of the nearest open eatery. He replied that, given the time (2:30AM), there was nothing open in the vicinity. We, however, refused to be dispirited by his words and vowed to overcome this unexpected twist of fate. Outside the tavern, we descried a McDonald's set atop a tor and made a run for it. Alas, it had closed its doors to business. Despite this figure of doom, we hoped the kind spirits of Memorial Day would smile on us in the form of an all-night sub shop or a 7-11.
What we found was not food, but Zeus, a pooch immured by a gilded bronze fence. His male owner had unaccountably stationed himself on the stoop, standing guard during his 3:30AM shift. Whilst Thorndike, S, Weenus and Harriet suffocated Zeus with love, I interrogated the man about Zeus' papers, his infant brood, the age of his cats, and the state of dogfighting in Brooklyn. My voice was barely audible over the din of Thorndike's incessant crying of, "Only kissies, only kissies!" as he lowered his face for repeated bathings. Lines were crossed when S announced her intention to transgress Zeus' fence. The man said it was not a good idea; S rebutted with, "You don't understand." Weenus, in charge, stepped in, "No S, you don't understand." We departed, leaving the man to ponder his brush with our coterie.
Back at S' bungalow, S, unbeknownst to the rest of us, tossed some pitas in the oven and lobbed some pierogies onto the stove, igniting the frying pan on which they flopped, before vanishing into the cavernous recesses of her chambers. A minute passed, and then S emerged, howling and ululating that something was aflame. After we solved the mystery of the burning starches, Weenus fried up the pierogies while chatting me up about yeast infections, antibiotics, and bronchitis.
We arose at 1PM sharp for Memorial brunch. Prior to our awakening, I had ventured to the bathroom only to discover a paucity of toilet paper. Quickly riffling through my purse, I discovered a cache of Kleenex, of which I used one sheet and placed the remainder on the back of the toilet for others' enjoyment. Nay, ere an hour passed before Weenus stirred and encountered the same predicament. I heard her vacate the habitat and thought, "I bet Weenus is going to get some toilet paper." Sure enough, she returned and conspicuously reentered the bathroom. I heard rustling, and then, when I chose to levitate from the futon anew, hours later, my pleasant suspicion was confirmed. I reveled in the rolls, and so was motivated by them that I decided to invest in a shower.
Shortly after beginning the journe
What we found was not food, but Zeus, a pooch immured by a gilded bronze fence. His male owner had unaccountably stationed himself on the stoop, standing guard during his 3:30AM shift. Whilst Thorndike, S, Weenus and Harriet suffocated Zeus with love, I interrogated the man about Zeus' papers, his infant brood, the age of his cats, and the state of dogfighting in Brooklyn. My voice was barely audible over the din of Thorndike's incessant crying of, "Only kissies, only kissies!" as he lowered his face for repeated bathings. Lines were crossed when S announced her intention to transgress Zeus' fence. The man said it was not a good idea; S rebutted with, "You don't understand." Weenus, in charge, stepped in, "No S, you don't understand." We departed, leaving the man to ponder his brush with our coterie.
Back at S' bungalow, S, unbeknownst to the rest of us, tossed some pitas in the oven and lobbed some pierogies onto the stove, igniting the frying pan on which they flopped, before vanishing into the cavernous recesses of her chambers. A minute passed, and then S emerged, howling and ululating that something was aflame. After we solved the mystery of the burning starches, Weenus fried up the pierogies while chatting me up about yeast infections, antibiotics, and bronchitis.
We arose at 1PM sharp for Memorial brunch. Prior to our awakening, I had ventured to the bathroom only to discover a paucity of toilet paper. Quickly riffling through my purse, I discovered a cache of Kleenex, of which I used one sheet and placed the remainder on the back of the toilet for others' enjoyment. Nay, ere an hour passed before Weenus stirred and encountered the same predicament. I heard her vacate the habitat and thought, "I bet Weenus is going to get some toilet paper." Sure enough, she returned and conspicuously reentered the bathroom. I heard rustling, and then, when I chose to levitate from the futon anew, hours later, my pleasant suspicion was confirmed. I reveled in the rolls, and so was motivated by them that I decided to invest in a shower.
Shortly after beginning the journe
To be continued...
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