I wish I had more time to spend with you. I’d like to tell you how we have all the clothes he’ll need until he’s three, thanks to the generosity of a few people we only kinda sorta know. Wife-asaurus and I were faces with piles and piles and piles of clothes. We were grateful for the windfall. Our gratitude was only slightly diminished when we realized a good third of the clothes were ugly as sin and the people we only kinda sorta know donated them to at least kinda sorta get rid of them. (The hands down ugliest was a NASCAR sleep sack thing. Holy Christ on a stick was that thing ever ugly.)

If I had more time, I’d tell you bout how Jason and I got into a little spat Saturday night. This doesn’t normally happen. Most nights, we laugh and giggle and make goo-goo faces at each other all night long. But Saturday, he joked that all the restaurants in the area should give us a ‘Restaurant of the Year’ award, cause we make them all look a helluva lot better. I was tired and crabby so I snapped at him, and one thing led to another. (Sunday morning, after a good night’s sleep, I smiled at the joke. Cause it ain’t a bad one.)

We decorate for Halloween. One of our decorations scared the shit outta this year and a half year old. He started wailing just as soon as he laid his year and a half year old eyes on this particular decoration. Top of his lungs, screaming. “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.” His parents tried to calm him to the point where they could have an at least somewhat quiet meal out. But every time they did, the year and a half year old would turn around, see the decoration, and “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE” all over again. They wound up having to get the food to-go. (The kid really has an aversion to skeletons with top-hats, glow-in-the-dark eyes and are hanging only a few feet away, so close it could almost reach out and grab him.) I’m gonna hafta save this story for later, though. No time.

Were my schedule less demanding or hectic, I could tell you bout my second official unsettling Pokey dream. Pokey came in, saddled up to the bar, and drank himself shitfaced. Beer and lemonade. Shandy after shandy. He was a grown up, an adult, in his twenties, with a grown up body and everything. A man, in other words. But his face was a baby’s face. He drank and drank and drank. I asked him to stop, then told Jason to cut him off, at which point Pokey puked all over the bar. It went everywhere, the puke. Everywhere. That’s when I woke up.

It’s too bad I don’t have an hour to spare, cause I’d copy and paste some Yelp reviews of ours and then of this place down the street that’s only been open since … March, I think. I haven’t checked Yelp in a while (user reviews depress the crap outta me), and I’m not sure what possessed me to do it yesterday. Ours were what you’d expect (“They need to do something with the menu” “Servers inattentive, food arrived cold but the drinks were good” “What a dump”). What struck me was, in four-plus years, we have exactly sixty-four reviews, whereas the place down the street’s barely been open and it has a hundred something already, and they’re almost all positive to raving. Once upon a time, Jimmy and I were debating whether to hire a PR guy to help us spread the word a bit. We decided against it. Chalk that one up as another mistake in a long line of mistakes.

I’d like to rant bout Jimmy, since he’s currently visiting a friend of ours in Dorset, England. I’d like to rant like I’ve never ranted before. Jurassic cliffs, long walks along the sea and fresh fish sound pretty fucking good right about now. Specially since right bout now, soon’s I’m done here, I gotta go find a bartender for tonight since Reggie’s got the bug that’s been going round for a good month now.

Due to me not having a moment to spare, I can’t tell you bout how Glen and I got into an extended, wee bit drunken debate over who is the bigger mama’s boy. I said Glen, he said me. This went on for a long time. (We had the courage of our convictions. And more than a few drinks in our systems.) The following morning, before nine, mom called to ask why I thought Glen was a mama’s boy. Thank you, Glen, for proving my point.

Speaking of mama, due to time constraints, I’ll hafta be brief: Mr. King Frog has found the woman of his dreams and it is not mom. It is someone else. Someone who plays tennis with him and lives one development down the road. Either Rhoda or Rhonda or Rona or Rosa or Mona or Joan or Joanie or … but they’re now living together and everything. I’ll miss Mr. King Frog. I liked watching him bumble around. If you think about it, he was the Alan of mom’s social circle.

Boy, it’s really too bad I’m running myself ragged here. Otherwise, I’d be able to tell you there’s this guy who comes in. He’s an ass. He came in last week and got down to the nitty gritty business of him being an ass. While he was being an ass, a cop crawled down the street giving tickets. He gave the ass a ticket for parking in the crosswalk. Ticket number one. As he was slapping the ticket on the windshield, he saw the ass hadn’t paid for parking. That was ticket number two. Ticket number three was the ass didn’t have a valid city sticker. No plate sticker resulted in ticket number four. That’s at least two hundred bucks in fines right there. With a smile on my face, I watched the ass leave and discover his windshield papered with tickets. Too bad I’m so busy running myself ragged, huh.

You could count the number of perks in this here business on one hand. But it ain’t a bad thing when beer guys’re pushing new beer. This morning, right before lunch, ours left a buncha samples. One beer I know and love, so I shoulda told him keep his sample of that, cause I already know and love it, so why sample? (Abita Pecan Ale.) I didn’t tell him that, though. So I gotta hurry through the rest of this stuff that I don’t really have time for, anyway, cause I really don’t have time for it if I expect to get everything else I gotta do done early so I can sit down to a few ice-cold bottles of Abita Pecan Ale.

So, I’m gonna go now, but before I do, I wanted to tell you that if you’re suffering from … irregularity, don’t waste money on some over-the-counter thing that may or may not work, and even if it does, it only provides gentle overnight relief. Try one of our blackened chicken quesadillas. That’ll get you right as rain, in no time. You won’t hafta wait more than … a half hour or so. You’ll be clockwork. I’ve heard this from a few different people now.