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Tuesday 200 - #48

The teensiest rivulet of pink drool was caked on the left corner of his mouth.

Could’ve been Pepto. Could’ve been the Pink Ladies from last night’s “Come as Your Mother in the Fifties and Drink her Cocktail” celebration.

Whichever, it clearly didn’t complement his coral lipstick. “Mama loved her corals,” he confided in me.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him he looked like he’d washed up off a reef. And I didn’t take the time to analyze why his dishevelled drag made him so delectable. Probably, it’s because in real clothes (or out of them) he’s untouchable … totally out of our league. But dolled up as a drunken Mamie Eisenhower, he was as frumpy as the rest of us on any given night.

The god became mortal.

“Come home with me,” I said. I heard a (jealous?) gasp from one of my daiquiri darlings. He looked me somewhat squarely in the eye and said, “dat’ll be mama’sh pleashure.”

A drunken god beats no god at all.

Don’t you hate it when gods are so hammered they forget they’re lactose intolerant and don’t realize how much dairy is in a Pink Lady?

I’ll have to burn those sheets.

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