I had my first Sloppy Joe last night at Bree's. I suppose it was cathartic, in a Sloppy Joe kind of way. Why do they call it a Manwich? They don't resemble a man at all; and you certainly don't look manly eating them. Any food that requires a bib is almost--dare I say it--emasculating. That's right, I said it: Sloppy Joe's are for pussies. But boy, are they good. We went over to hang out with Bree, and Oliver,
Ollie: Who's Bono?
Me: You're dead to me.
Kids are cute. He and Oren got Whoopie cushions at Bartell's (because who doesn't like hanging at Bartell's?) and farted their way into friendship in Bree's living room. Timo made an appearance, as did Kai, and I startled Jon Auer from above. We walked to the Canterbury to get milkshakes with the kids, but we were too late--they stop making them after 8PM. We departed, drove home, and played Audiosurf until our eyes drooped. I got up this morning and went to work--where everything went wrong, it was one of those days--and we drove to BFE to drop Oren off. Afterwards, I was too pooped to make it home, so we're spending the night at my parents' house; they're at the beach cabin, so it's just my brother, his friend Tom, the Esq, and myself. Family Guy and ice cream, all night long.
But first, I'm jumping in the hot tub.