Monday, October 04, 2004
Service: * *
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * *
I'm playing Barry. And boy, is he suffering. In fact, his misery is more abject than Sophia's was last week. This is my second match in the new cycle, and it looks like I'll be winning two in a row. Barry's so far behind me, and he's been comprehensively crushed psychologically.
"But Roy," he says, "this is impossible! I sacrificed a Woolworth's chicken to the ancestors this afternoon!"
"Maybe you should have tried a Checkers chicken," I say, slapping my dice across the no-man's land of my home board. Barry lets out a mild yell as he sees my double four, and chucks his own dice into the pile in disgust.
He extends his hand. "Thanks for the match," he says.
"Pleasure," I say. And I break a backgammon rule. I gloat. I've beaten him 21-11. I call across the room to Peter, our resident surgeon. "Hey Doc," I shout, "how do you treat a ripped rectum?"
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