Shermy rose from bed and approached the edge of a staircase as cock-eyed as the rouge on his math teacher’s cheeks. What could he say? His uncles drank just fine but made poor carpenters.
There were more sounds drifting up from the brightly lit kitchen. Drawers opening and closing. A can of Mezzo-Mix–or was it Josta?–fizzing madly, then less so, as the visitor poured it into a plastic cup with a cartoon of a steroid-abusing wrestler on the side.
Another drawer, then a series of whining hums as only the grey-plastic-covered, underpowered electric appliances of that era could make, and then: “Heiliger Strohsack!”
And so goes the last post of the year for this blog. I wish it could have made more sense, but those kinds of efforts are what 2011 is for. Happy New Year, everyone.