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Our party was winding down, most had left, and the birthday girl was getting tired. You all burst in, full of energy and liquor and noise. For reasons I still don't totally understand, you were tearing up a porn magazine, and sticking bits of it onto the walls while your drinks were ordered.You sat at the table next to us, giggling and shrieking and generally being obnoxious, which was fine for a Friday night at Dr Bombay's (a night like any other Friday night at Dr. Bombay's). Until I saw it.A tube, made up of a page or two of the remains of the porn mag, the only whole pages left, as best I can tell, besides the close-up-shaved-beaver montage that the cute blonde girl had pinned to her chest; a tube, with tiny animal feet sticking out of one end. I leaned over to your table, "What's that?"One of you unrolled the tube, revealing the remains of the poor creature, a small, dead gopher, wrapped in porn, and somehow turned into the mascot of your Friday night at Dr. Bombay's (you know the drill). What was the meaning? Why had you decided to bring your cat's fresh kill out drinking? Was there something deeper going on that I simply didn't understand in my end-of-evening haze? Did I miss that it was 'Bring Your Own Dead Rodent' night?All of these questions were churning around in my head in a kind of inchoate muddle, when the rest of my party, mumbling things about how late it was getting, and whether we could all fit in a cab, and shouldn't someone call the health department, bundled me up and we all wandered out the door.My last glance back at your table left me with two impressions -- the really drunk girl with the crotch photos pinned to her chest was, in fact, pretty cute, and the guy across the table from her was, in fact, swinging by the tail, a dead gopher, wrapped in porn.