Patrick got a visit from Death on Christmas Eve

Near midnight, a drunk stumbled into the lobby of Patrick's hotel. "Can I help you, sir?" Patrick asked. No reply. "If you'd like to check in I'll have to see some I.D."

The man reaches for the right back pocket of his jeans, pulls his wallet out, thinks twice, and stuffs the wallet back in his pocket. "My name's Death."

"Okayyy...Mister 'Death', I'll still need to see some I.D. Are you registered to a room here?"

"I'm registered to the lobby." He stands around for a bit, and Patrick waits. If the man sits down, then he is trespassing, and Patrick is free to call the cops.

"I don't know where my car is." A pause. "Do you think the keys are outside?" He wanders out onto the parking lot, and nothing more is heard of him.


~*~*~*

According to a recent survey, infidelity is no longer a question of "if", but "when"? This is according to Patrick's favorite morning radio talk show.

Patrick thinks it will be me; I think it will be him. We have both agreed that if it hasn't happened before Patrick turns 40, he will definitely undergo a midlife crisis by then, buy a Porsche 911 Turbo, and find a barely-legal busty blonde named Stephanie.

Patrick has an online (guy) friend who is single, available and becoming more and more attracted to a coworker who happens to have a boyfriend. Said friend has put up pics of the prospect for the guys' approval, and they all agree that she is a hottie.

The question of course is whether or not he should have sex with her. She seems willing enough. The consensus is that as long as he can think of this as merely play, then go for it. It can't become a serious relationship, because another guy just like him is bound to come along.
~*~*~*

Patrick woke up grumpy the other day. Apparently he'd dreamt that we were no longer together but still supported each other financially. In his dream, he'd remarried unhappily, and his wife was ugly. The end.

~*~*~*