Booze, Cheese and Petty Larceny (Or, My Evening With A*, Julie, Allison, Spencer and Hof)

Every once in a while you have one of those nights where the story of the evening's events ends with the most ridiculous and obtuse factual statement in the world. It makes perfect sense to those that bore witness to the night's events, but it's a long journey to get there. Often a journey whose steps include booze and questionable judgment.
The story of my friday night dinner at a wine and cheese bar with A*, Hof, Julie and Allison culminates in the following statement:
"And when I woke up Saturday afternoon and went downstairs, the Bronze Fickle Finger of Fate was sitting in my mailbox, right where I had left it the night before. "
See what I mean? The 5 others who were at dinner know exactly what I'm talking about. The rest of you are sitting scratching your heads muttering "The Hell?"
Allow me to explain.
Hof's arrival in town (coupled with the fact that A* and I Heart Allison and Julie) warranted dinner. And Booze.
So I dragged everyone to this little wine and cheese bar near my house. The place is adorable, and we were lucky enough to be seated at a back table against shelves that were jam packed with all manner of shit that one might find at a flea market, or possibly in a mobile home. While waiting for Hof and A* (Ahem), Allison, Julie, Julie's boyfriend Spencer (whom I also think is a comedic genius and an incredibly great guy to talk and drink with) poked around the shelves. After looking over CDs from the 80s (which prompted a 20 minute discussion on the merits of craked out Whitney Houston vs. sober Whitney Houston), duck shaped meansuring cups (don't ask) and a wayward computer keyboard, we found it. IT. The Bronze Flying Fickle Finger of Fate. And it was all over. The Finger became the stone monolith to our drunken monkeys.
A large pot of fondue and several glasses of wine later, it was decided that the finger needed to come home with us. And into my jeans it went (Yes, I steal on occasion. But in my defense I am going back there next week to balance the karmic scales by leaving a knick knack from my home on the shelf. So Shut It.)
A* covered me, and we left the restaurant. Quickly. Thing is, only A* and Hof knew I had it. That is, of course, until we hit the street and I spun round, asked "Guess who got himself a souveneir?", whipped it from my pants (the Fickle Finger, not.... oh never mind) used it to point at myself and yelled "This Guy!"
Yeah, I'm classy and witty. Why some man hasn't snapped up a sharp klepto such as myself is beyond me.
Things didn't get too bad until we hit the McCoy's for whiskey. And I ran upstairs to get my camera. 6 adults photographing themselves playing with a Bronze hand. That shit is just Piping Hot.
After McCoy's, when I should have gone home (evidenced by the fact that I could no longer actually say Flying Fickle Finger of Fate without having to sit down and concentrate really hard), Allison and I decided that what we actually needed to do was drink more at Therapy (because what evening of fun isn't complete until I ruin my mood without seeing Bartender? Masochism is so hot right now.).
Too lazy to climb the stairs to my apartment, I threw the Finger in my mailbox and stumbled back to Allison.
Things get a tad hazy from there. There was vodka. Allison and I agreed that Kelly Clarkson is a genius, that men are all idiots, and that liquor is a good thing (We were roughly 8 cocktails in by then. What were you expecting? Discourse on transitional Romanesque architecture? My functioning was reduced to a drool and grunt level.)
Somehow I made it home and into bed.
And when I woke up Saturday afternoon and went downstairs, the Bronze Fickle Finger of Fate was sitting in my mailbox, right where I had left it the night before.
Thanks for an amazing evening everyone.

You Guys are Number One.