Back from the recently declassified Bachelorette Party location: Atlantic City.

Went to a dance club. Haven't been to one of those since 1928 when I was dating a totally fly chimney sweep with a pimped out horse drawn carriage.

The club had professional underpant-clad lady dancers on the table tops -- although a lot of them seemed to be phoning it in. But not my favorite, she wanted to be there, I know it.



I also found Davy Jones' shirt. It had a gross ketchup-looking stain that you can see if you click on the picture:





And that's about all from this weekend fit to mention here.

You know what I mean, yes, I think you do.

Now back to your scheduled NaPoWriMo.