New evidence has surfaced concerning the aforementioned pork shank. It was NOT found under the pillow of a sleeping Beaver, rather, wrapped in a napkin in the coat pocket of yours truly. We stand busted.
Anyways, speaking of busting,
the band lit it up last night at practice.
Nothing like a gaggle of white yuppies cranking out China Grove, fueled by hot and gasless keg beer. Attempting "Photograph" and "Darling Nicky" next week. I expect this will result in picketing from the cleaning staff - they didn't seem amused by our Santana slow jam. Sounded like boiling a ferret.
Let's hope junior inherits Papa Beaver's musical gifts. A true player, in all the sporting senses.
I think I made a Rambo reference a few weeks back. Well, get on the A-train:
Late for an appointment with a pastrami sandwich. Dad needs mom jeans, too.
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