On the last of these nights, we scrape together

On the last of these nights, we scrape together all the leftovers, all the bits of bone and soggy chips and drips in glasses for the multimeal of champions. It is both a dare and a

nutritious start for our marathon. Under immense pressure and heat, a weeks worth of leftovers can become a tasty energy bar. I heard this was how Lance Armstrong started his day.

I pulled out the hot, matted block of congealed leftovers. I lifted up the mass to take a bite and then the phone rang. It was the Marathon Committee. Apparently I was disqualified

for, in my opinion, no good reason at all. Shrugging my shoulders in psuedo-nonchalance, I resumed my noshing. Truth was, I was royally pissed I'd been disqualified from the marath

on of bum-jiggling. I jiggled my bum the best. How dare they. Oh well, they're missing out. But then again, so am I. These modern-day sayings are so foolish. YOLO, what is that?!

I'm in bumjiggle trance as the last guest leaves the bar. Sybil appears behind me. "One more night like this and I will have to fire you, Pete. It's not you, it's… your bumjiggle!"

"What about my bumjiggle, boss?" Pete asked. "It's just that it's so...well you know...what I mean to say is...just don't do it again Pete, I'd hate to have to let you go, you're

a real asset to the company. But if there's something causing you to get a little behind in your work, Pete, I could take you in the back office and… we could get to the bottom…"

"Jesus," Pete replied, "if you were any more heavy-handed your fingers would be in a black hole!" "Dammit Pete, your ass is hot! Let's just drop all pretense and pants-tense this