My Cardboard Balcony

Pour Two Pints by Belinda Roddie Pour two pints, please - and yes, they're both for me. I need to guzzle my sorrow some way, and since I'm not driving home tonight, see, I can drink as much as I like. One day, I'll wake up in an alley or a ditch, or in a hospital, if I'm lucky. My ex-wife won't visit me - she's a bitch, anyway, so I don't care. They're empty already? Refill my glasses, so I can keep this routine up until it's dawn, or until you kick me out, say goodbye to my drunk ass and leave me on the lawn that's choked and dried out, just like me. Pour two pints for me, and I might toast to you.

When I said I didn't want mustard, I got a burger that was practically smothered in it. Hell, I didn't even have to pick it up to see how much the stuff ran down the sides. The waiter was pretty indignant about it, even though the chef came out and tore him a new one because he had written "extra extra extra extra mustard" on the order. I don't know if the little brat got fired, but the replacement burger I got was pretty great. And to prove a point, I stabbed a random mustard bottle a few times with my fork.