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Arts & Entertainment
“I think we’re gonna have a real good time together, Arnie.”
“Everybody thinks their own world is the real world.”
“Enjoy your beers, gents. Because tomorrow who knows what may happen. Maybe you get run over and croaked by a bus.”
And he was wearing that weird grin again, it was like the look little boys have when they’re pouring lighter fluid on an anthill.
By now she was blatantly rubbing up against me, moving her body side to side, holding her forearms up as if she were dancing a rhumba.
“Perhaps I might join you in a beer,” said the Frenchman. “After I have finished voiding the residue of my own most recent bock.”
Like a lot of things in life, I thought: they start out okay, but then suddenly they’re not so okay, and then finally they’re downright annoying.
Ishmael looked at the floor, almost as if he had dropped a contact lens and was looking for it, but I suppose it was only a scrap of dignity he was looking for.
“Would you like a Wrigley’s Spearmint, sir?” said Ishmael. “I find a stick of the Wrigley’s does wonders after a good hurling, to freshen and sweeten the tongue and palate.”
Could it be that Josh — the son of God — had a drinking problem?
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