chicago

There are many measures by which to judge a weekend.

Some consider one’s entrance significant.  Here, we surprised someone, and we were greeted with literal jumps with joy.  A sight to see at a Chicago pub.  Full marks.

Some consider dispositive whether or not one was covered with hot cheese at any point.  Here, perhaps, a concession.  There may have been an incident, if recollection be a curse, in which we slipped, in a crowded late night noshery, on a floor made slick by drizzle, in which we, wishing to preserve a newly wrought tray of cheese fries, held up said tray in an act of nimble heroism, wherein said tray fell victim to the jostle of the crowd, said tray toppling, spilling, splashing everywhere.  On the shirt, on the neck, on the arm: cheese.   Full marks.   Bonus extra credit for receiving, as a proper farewell serenade: “Yo dude, u got cheese in ur hair.”

Lastly, some consider one’s exit imperative to success.  For this, we consider the security staff at Chicago Midway Airport, those shepherds of the itinerant, bursting with goodwill and merriment, who, among their many gifts of happiness, disposed of an entire bottle of contact lens solution because it tested positive for explosive residue, twice. Full marks.

The tally indicates a success, gentlemen and good ladies.   Goodnight.

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