spatch

Here's a charmingly tasteless story from b0st0n, where this post originated:

i had a halloween party.

SOMEONE TOOK A SHIT ON MY BATHROOM WALLS
AND IT'S A BATHROOM THAT IS WITHIN MY BEDROOM

so here is my question:

has anyone here ever used a local private investigator? what are the prices like? any recommendations?

thanks,
gene

It was a cold and windy day in the City of Beans. Temperatures dropping to near-freezing, the Sox had just won the Series and I slowly regained consciousness to find myself lying in a pool of potato-scented drool. I grunted, glancing about to ascertain my whereabouts: the underside of my desk. A popular and familiar destination. Also familiar was the feeling of a tugging at my shoe; it was my trusty secretary Tessie giving me the usual 1:30 pm wake-up call.

"Time to get up, Charlie," Tessie said with a graceful urgency that betrayed her Roslindale hairdo. "You've got a client. Hand me the bottle of Kappy's vodka and watch your head as you get up. You managed to get yourself under your chair again, too."

I slowly extricated myself from underneath the chair and its treacherous casters. Staggering to my knees, I found the task of standing fully up too much for my dehydrated, hungover senses and after a few failed attempts, slipping on the slick linoleum floor, I managed to grip the edge of my desk and slowly pull myself up to a near-standing position. Tessie helpfully wheeled the chair out of my way and then pushed it back just in time for me to collapse in it and sprawl over the desk. My arms flopped down first, scattering pens and paperwork about; my blotto head second, making a forehead-shaped imprint on the cushy blotter.

I blearily saw her as I finally worked up the strength to hold my head up. The sight was definitely energizing. The dame was gorgeous: an amazing blonde in a black dress, black stockings, black shoes I think I saw on Sex And The City and a black veiled hat to match. Definitely Newbury Street. Not a hint of Filene's Basement about her. She looked across the office at me, perched as she was on the red naughahyde couch, keeping a cigarette smoldering simply by holding it close to her lips. A road sign appeared above her that read "CAUTION: LEGS CROSSING." She gazed into my bloodshot eyes with a predatory look of vulnerability. She was all over the map, and her topography was breathtaking.

( "Mr. Kendall?" she asked. )

Then I thought I should
Then I thought better of it
But then I thought better of thinking better and did it anyway.

So, concerning last night's Circus Maximus at Fenway Park: