asset in the boudoir. Plus I got a whole routine for cocktail parties - down a bourbon, pop em out, hit the bottle, pop em back in like tossing a coin. It's a scream every time.
Barnaby saw some fly by night scam artist on TV, wakes me up on a Sunday, buys the whole racket hook, line, sinker.
"It's Armond Budish's guest expert!" That sucker born every minute they used to tell you about? That was Barnaby. Before his second bottle of J&B.
"Is that some sort of a tree?"
"No! Armond Budish! He's a 'senior advocate'!" Right.
"And you used to see a parrot in that cage."
"We all nearly puked in the punch bowl last time you popped 'em out, just get it done DOT!" Well, Ol' Dot's hygiene is a priority, so I went to this scheister. Wasn't cheap either.
Two weeks later, we're at Arnold Pinkney's new pad for a canasta game. Ralph Perk deals, Nev Chandler passes me the Canadian Club, I go into my routine. Down the first shot, try to pull out my partial. My hand slips off, head snaps back, chair tips, next thing I know I'm layin' on the floor with my corset in the air.
"HA HA HA," they all start hootin, hollerin, throwin' cards at me, spritzing beer bottles at an old lady rolling around on the floor with her teeth half out of her face. I get up, grab the bottle, see Barnaby taking off in full gallop, give chase.
"You're gonna get yours...." I try to yell, but it comes out, "grrnnghh urrghgnt blrffbt". More cards get thrown at me. So much for canasta.
Long story short, Barnaby got his. I made him pull out my partial with his own hands, then fashioned a cat o' nine tails out of it, strapped him to my ceiling, had Joel Rose make him the sub for my weekly threesome. This 'senior advocate' is gonna wish that's all he gets, cuz now I'm walkin' around flappin my gums like a dust bowl hokie.
This scoop is more work than I thought.