In search for pitchers and bad food, we found ourselves at an establishment of better repute (although the bathrooms were ingeniously tucked away in some hidden location).
It has been a long time since I've whiled away a night in a pub. Gathered with some classmates, we slugged back some Creemore Springs, Guinness, and my old standby, Moosehead, as we complained about everything, laughed a lot and made fun of each other.
We were all convinced that Michelle was being hit on by Katie, our wait staff, who insisted on calling her "honey" and "sweetie". What a nightmare. Keith adventurously consumed a street vendor's mild sausage. Need I elaborate? Just look at him.
As for me, one chin-up on the subway and my Weekly World News ("Elvis located by a psychic") and I'm happy camper.
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