I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...
“So, not everyone gets a nickname,” Darren remarked.
“Oh, don’t be so literal. You’re getting one.”
“What’s your nickname?”
“I don’t respond to them.”
Darren rolled his eyes and signaled the bartender. “Another tequila and ginger, please.”
“That’s it!” Chris cried.
The bartender eyed Chris.
“Oh Henry, don’t you... wait, Oh Henry! I love it! Another chillax, Oh Henry.”
Henry scoffed and stalked away.
“I hope we get our drinks,” Darren lamented.
Chris shrugged it off. “Where were we?”
“Who knows?”
“Where are we having our preantepenultimate drink?”
“Our what?”
“Our I-haven’t-had-nearly-enough-alcohol drink.”
“Our next drink?”
“Yes.”
“Posh? West Village?” Darren hoped Chris had forgotten the whole nickname thing.
He hadn’t.
