As you may have recently noticed, I have recently consumed your milkshake. I wanted to take a moment to explain this further, as I feel there may have been some small degree of miscommunication in my intent. Perhaps your first thought, after seeing that your glass was no longer a font of frosty dairy-goodness, but rather a playa of desiccated pink lipids, that someone had mistook your milkshake for their own. "An honest, though regrettable mistake!", you told yourself. Let me be plain: I saw your milkshake. I knew it was yours and it was for this reason alone that I consumed it. Had it been a bottle of anti-freeze, I would have drank it all the same knowing it was yours. That it was a delectable frozen dairy concoction was incidental, though certainly a bonus. The pleasure, however, was not some schoolboy's sugar-rush, it was the pure adult joy of knowing that shortly you would find your milkshake, gone, departed to my stomach, where even now, my lactose intolerance is causing me physical discomfort. That I will be spending the next six hours on the crapper is small penance for the thrill of seeing your lower lip protrude in a pout of loss, knowing full well it will not be covered in a coating of milk, eggs and flavoring any time in the near future.
Take a closer look at the glass, friend. You'll notice I left none for you. This is actually no easy feat. The malt shoppe glass is designed for the retention of liquid and does not give up the last vestiges of shake from its lower paraboloid without a fight. I will not recount the various methodologies employed to remove the last of your shake; let's just say a very large straw was required. My straw is big, dammit! Huge!
Bowling, anyone?
There Will Be Blood, the best frikkin' movie of last year, is out on DVD tomorrow.
