I went to an extremely entertaining night of beers and 'Guitar Hero III' at David's on Saturday. The following day, to my surprise, Ken called me. Often. Early in the fucking morning. On Sunday.

Why, do you ask? David apparently lost his keys, so Ken had to call me every hour on the hour until I picked up the phone to ask if I took them home with me the night before. In truth, I had considered filching the keyring, but them I realized that they're NOT MY FUCKING KEYS, SO I HAD NO REASON TO TAKE THEM HOME. Rather than labor this point into Ken's ear, I kindly replied that I have no idea where the keys are and, yea verily, I did not have them last. Or first. Or, you know,... ever. I can't really get mad, in all fairness. Calling me was a last resort, obviously. They had probably already turned the couch over, looked inside the truck, quadruple checked the kitchen counter, and sifted through the dogs' poops before they woke me up. I still don't know if they ever found them.

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