Or, why I don’t drink at my local on St. Patrick’s Day despite it being an Irish bar and serving a pretty mean car bomb:

I scan the area around the Bar to make sure I’m not going to step in anything green and disgusting. A group of five people is hanging out on the sidewalk, eating falafel or gyros or whatever they’ve bought from the cart down the street, but only four of them are standing. One is sitting down, in his own green mini-portajohn with the door open. It’s a Hallowe’en-worthy effort, and I have to smile.

That’s when he looks up at me from his sandwich, and says, “Your nipples are fantastic.”

Via metaquotes.

A.