Plastered, not stirred.

Oh, yeah. This past Thursady Night, I was at a local drinking establishment with a couple of buddies after work, when, to my surprise, I was paged to the bar. No, it wasn't free drink time, or some long-ago, multi-million dollar bar tab discovered during the annual cleaning; (to my relief) it was, instead, a friend of mine who had been scouring town to find me, knowing that my Keith-Richards Mark VII liver was reliable in any drinking emergency. I was duly summoned to his domicile, where the drink of choice shifted from Killian's Irish Red to the even more red (and decidedly less Irish) Cabernet Sauvignon. In keeping with the International motif of the evening, (or early morning, by this point) his lovely fiance then proceeded to fashion, for little old me, the perfect Vodka martini. (shaken or stirred, I cannot remember) which I pretended was less than perfect, in true Oscar Wilde fashion, so she would make me another. Ah, perfection. I love you both. A wonderful evening. The next day at work, however, was curiously l o n g. But worth every second. Hope to see you again , soon.