Operation Rescue

Skittles has been sighted.

I first sighted the tragic furball in Vegas. Well, not so much sighted as heard somewhere in or around John's apartment in Henderson.

I remember waking up sometime on Sunday morning on the living room floor next to the empty futon bed. Apparently, Winesha had drunkenly stumbled off somewhere early in the morning. I, however, found myself completely wrapped in some kind of evil blanket device that had been bewitched to evade all attempts at removal. After much concentrated and taxing effort, I got the damn thing off and stood up.

That's when I heard her.

Skittles.

It wasn't quite a meow. Not really a yelp. A distant relative of a high-pitched cry.

Possibly a me-yelp-ry

At any rate, I was told that Winesha had adopted the damn hairball and I, by default, was responsible for her well-being. As time has passed, I've come to miss her.

So, if anyone has seen Skittles, PLEASE contact me ASAP.

Skittles, where are you?

Cook? Well that doesn't make any sense

I won a nice chunk of change at the casino again, so I decided to buy a couple of new and fun shirts.

I think they're funny as all hell, but I'm sure the joke's on me somehow. So, in the next couple of days, I need someone to play devil's advocate. Otherwise, in a month, I don't wanna hear it.

Love,
Brent

Uh oh

Pickle.

Last week I turned in my 4th request for time off from work.

-- April 22-23: Women's spring tournament @ Great Lakes Center, Chicago
-- May 23 - 28: North American Gay Volleyball Association Championships @ Atlanta
-- July 4 - 15: Volleyball Camps @ MI St
-- July 15-23: Gay Games @ Chicago

The big boss is on vacation in Florida right now, so I won't get the worst dirty look ever given for a few more days. He's already approved my time off for this weekend's women's tournament and the Gay Games. With the volleyball camps, I'd be taking the entire month of July off, so it's not looking good for the NAGVA championships.

..yeah honey, I'm the designated driver...

I haven't stepped foot in a bar, tavern, pub or club since January 10th.

When I mention this fact to people, they start to laugh...and calculate the statistical improbability of my declaration.

In fact, it's the same reaction I get when I profess that I'm innocent and virginal.

All three are true: bar estrangement, innocence and virginality...kind of.

Technically, I guess, I walk into a bar 4 times a week. But, the bar in my restaurant shouldn't count. I'm not allowed to drink before, during or after my shift. And, I'm not a big fan of well whisky old fashioned sweets or generic gin martinis on the rocks, which seem to be the only drinks my tables seem to be ordering lately.

On a sidenote: To the diners who seem to think that I, the lowly waiter, am personally and single-handedly responsible for the following things, kiss my fucking ass:

-- Pepsi products instead of Coke.
-- Sierra Mist is WAAAAAAAAAY to sweet
-- Your favorite microbrew isn't one of the 11 beers we have on tap.
-- MGD doesn't come in a bottle.
-- Only 2 options for double-malt whisky
-- Your drink arrives more than 3.4 seconds after you order at 7:30 pm on Saturday night.
-- Our water is too cold. Our ice is too big.
-- The bottle of wine you ordered is more expensive than at the Discount Liquor across the street from your trailer.

Okay, I feel better.

Wait, one more thing...

WHEN YOU SHOW UP AT A RESTAURANT ON A SATURDAY NIGHT WITHOUT A RESERVATION AND ARE TOLD THE WAIT WILL BE AN HOUR AND A HALF TO TWO HOURS....AND ARE SAT AN HOUR AND FORTY FIVE MINUTES AFTER YOU ARRIVE...YOU ARE ONE LUCKY MOFO. YOUR WAITER HAS DONE ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY NOTHING WRONG...BY GETTING ANGRY, YOU'RE THE FUCKING MORON.

There, all better.

I can't say that I haven't had a drink. I had a few glasses of wine during a dinner date in February. On two of my off days, I had a total of three drinks while waiting for my roommate to get off work so I could drive her home. Last time, I had a chocolate martini and a grasshopper and got a little buzz going. That's just sad.

Winesha's been banging at the closet walls for awhile. Apparently, someone peeled her off some Vegas sidestreet and air mailed her back to Milwaukee via some kind of poultry and livestock transport. From time to time, I'll wake up in the middle of the night and hear her calling out "Skittles" and ransacking my closet. Girl is a mess.