Bootyology 101

"Oh yeah! Call him!" chimed in the rest of the table. Meanwhile, I was scanning my memory bank to try to remember who this John fellow was. The guy who bought me the Hefeweizen at Café Du Nord? The dude at the Arcade Fire show who knew my old baby sitter?

"John?" said Beth to the voice on the other end. "Hi! We met a few weeks ago?" Apparently "John" didn't remember meeting any woman, especially any woman who would call him at 11 p.m. "You know," she continued playfully, "we had all those drinks and you gave me your number." The voice on the other end told her that he hadn't had a drink in 20 years. "Oh come on," she pleaded teasingly, "we had a great time that night ... all night long. I need more of that." At this point John was losing his patience, and the conversation soon ended. Halfway through it, however, I remembered who John was. He was the name and number the guy at the Salvation Army gave me if I ever needed furniture moved.

The fun eventually died down and we dispersed. My baboon ass was draggin'. Desmond Morris may have described us as the "sexiest primates alive," but we still need our booty sleep.