I want sheven BLT'sh pleash

Thanks, Mandy, I'd forgotten about the BLT story.

Ah-hem ... the BLT Story.

I used to drink. A lot. I don't drink anymore. This is just one of the million reasons why:

My wife and I were on a cruise. It was the middle of the night. She was sick, so I'd tucked her in to bed and had ventured out on my own like the song goes "the ruler of the night". Well not really, but it sounds cool. Do they really say, "Wrapped up like a douche, you know the ruler of the night?" I don't listen to lyrics very well.

Anyway. Alone. Drinking. Gambling. Hungry. 4 bad states for me to be in. By about 4:30 in the morning, I'm predictably wrecked. The boat is swaying, but I'm right in tune as I'm swaying in time to it. I stagger back to the room.

And I climb into the upper bunk being careful to not awaken my wife. Yes, I'm a cheap shit, bunk beds.

Then the thought hits me, must have BLT's.

So I climbed back down to use the phone, how I managed to not wake her or break my neck is a mystery.

If you've never been on a cruise ship, I'll tell you now, one of the COOLEST things about a cruise is that you can eat 24 hours a day for free. Room service is free. And they'll bring you anything they have and as much as you want as long as you tip them. So the person on the other end of the room service line never faltered when I ordered seven BLT's. Why seven? Hell, I don't know. I was hungry. They were free. And I'd just finished gambling (though I NEVER bet on 7).

So I climb BACK up the ladder to the bunk. And promptly pass out.

Knock at the door. OH, SHIT! DON'T WAKE UP MY WIFE! I clamber back down the ladder not killing myself again. Open the door and there stands the room service guy with a large mistake on my part. I hadn't visualized how much food seven BLT's actually was. The guy glances past me (he could see the entire room it was so small) sees just my wife sound asleep, sees my drunken ass, looks at the HUGE tray of BLT's and I'd love to know what he was thinking.

I hand him a tip. And off I go with food in hand. I slide the tray, which more resembles the hood of a 57 Chrysler onto the top bunk, I scramble up the ladder, nestle in next to the tray and prepare for my feast.

The next morning, I don't feel too good. My head is doing the boingy-boingy thing and I can't remember a whole lot about last night. And there's this god-awful smell. As my eyes open, "Ahhhh!" I'm face-to-face with an alien shape. It's a BLT. I bolt upright. Now my head REALLY hurts and is screaming at me, "MOVE SLOWLY DUMBASS!". As my eyes adjust, I discover I'm surrounded by a posse of seven BLT's and only one of them has a single bite taken out of it. I hadn't eaten any of them before I passed out, but I had managed to thrash about in them as I fitfully slept, so they were scattered everywhere. I hadn't eaten them, I was wearing them.

I give up. You got me.

At least I got a bite out of one of ya'.