Message 11231 of 39188 in General Discussion

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Cheers, Jesse. While we're on the subject, seeing as ewe like Jägermeister, 
and I'm feeling relatively garrulous, I'll recount another Queneau anecdote to 
further denigrate my own reputation.

Whilst on one of my bi-annual trips to North America (look out y'all, the next 
one is due in May), I decided to pop in on my good friend Eric, who runs "The 
Highlander" in Atlanta - the bar which is responsible for shifting more Jäger 
stock than any other bar in Georgia and, at the last count, was top twenty for 
the whole of the States. (I know it's not quite Thurber, but I'm sure ewe can 
see what is coming).

After a few obligatory "bêtes noires"*, I thought I'd introduce the staff and 
clients to my recently discovered Tequila Suicide (snort the salt, drink the 
booze, squirt the lime in your eye). Topographical anomie soon kicked in, and 
the Queneau decided he would like to taste a bona fide Georgia Peach 
elsewhere, so Eric duly took the assembled tourists to one of Atlanta's famous 
strip bars. Now I'm not generally a fan of strip clubs (the booze always 
tastes like tanning lotion), but I persevered nonetheless, blindly unaware 
that audience participation was deeply discouraged. By the time the bouncers 
reached me, I had managed to throw my jacket around the dancer (the poor woman 
must have been freezing), had nearly been strangled by her python, and was 
wiggling my Cardins in the faces of the bemused punters, demanding sexual 
parity and a decent share of the tips. (warning to men - white boxer shorts 
under black light is not very flattering to those of us who are under-endowed).

With most imbibing avenues exhausted at this stage due to my general demeanour 
and behaviour, we planned to return to The Highlander for a lock-in and 
mischievousness aplenty. Taxis, however, were scance. Queneau, being the 
ever-creative soul that he is, faked an epileptic seizure (the shame) in the 
middle of the strip, prompting Atlanta's Finest to stop for enquiry. Despite 
their huge guns and intimidating scowls, I managed to convince the police that 
my Irish forebears' toil and diligence in creating this fine land was 
justification enough to take us to our destination. Unbelievably they obliged, 
and even satisfied my request to put the cuffs on us for authenticity. 
Wonderful people. I was last seen wobbling out of the bar, announcing my 
intention to march to Savannah, because I wanted to spend Midnight in the 
Garden of Good and Evil.

To conclude: do not let Queneau drink alcohol.


*geddit?