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Thursday, October 23, 2008


Back in 1990 or so, I attended one of the launch parties at Cabo Wabo.

Sammy Hangar invited me personally.

As I sidled up to the bar, I noticed a beautiful, crazy woman sitting at a stool, quietly singing to herself. A blonde shock of hair spilled over her, like a young Phyllis Diller.

I was smitten. Women that sing to themselves like that are either drunk or a little psychotic - either way, I knew she'd be great in the sack.

I sat down next to her, and as the bartender asked me what my poison was, I scanned the liquor behind him. So many kinds of tequila - but I knew I had to impress her.

I asked him to get a pint glass and fill it with ice. He did. I asked him to put a lime in it. He did.

Then I asked him to dump the bar mat into it. He didn't miss a beat, curled up the mat, and a sluice of mystery drippings filled the glass.

I thanked him, dropped a Grant on the wet counter, and picked up my drink. I toasted the bartender, who had decided to watch.

Then I turned to the lady and said, "I call this drink 'Sex on a Bar'. Maybe I can order you one later." She giggled.

We toasted to our health, and I pounded it.

I'm a strong, proud man, but I don't think I'll order that drink again. It was like Carmen Miranda's urine mopped up from a Chinese restaurant floor.

I normally have an inordinate amount of self-control, but my gag reflex kicked in halfway through and I began vomiting uncontrollably.

She tried to jump out of the way, but slipped and fell beneath me as I retched.

A waterfall of soggy tortilla chips and personal mistakes rained down upon her.

The bartender just laughed and laughed.

That woman was David Lee Ross.