And lo! Ribfest called unto the Lord, and was vanquished not.

What glorious accidental foresight that my friends Chad and Erin happen to find themselves with. They are coming to visit me, because they empathize with my complete inability to locate and lugubriously latch onto friendly human beings in my immediate vicinity. So they are coming to keep me company.

And!

Little do they know, Burlington has wreaked a havoc on its waterfront, where truck-sized barbecues have been staked into the ground, and approximately two acres of the park lawns have been rightfully dominated by injection-molded plastic patio furniture. The types of Americans who live between Appalachia and Texas have begun to lay claim to the area.

Awww yeah, brah! It's Ribfest weekend!



I have picked a spot yonder round the bend in the shoreline, just off the beach, where only a very few choice lads will find themselves, stuffed with pigmeats and having a sort of identity crisis. This is where i will place the boar's head on a sharp stick, hence known as The Lord of the Flies. It is practically non-negotiable, to have The Lord of the Flies present. It is going hand-in-hand with these sorts of civilized displays of excess. It is also the least i could do for Simon, who is one of my favourites. It is Simon on my left shoulder, Holden Caufield on my right. Maybe. When i'm not being a phony, anyways.

But all of this digression leads me right back to the point, which is why digression is cooler than you will ever be. Four pubs, a martini bar, and seventeen metric tonnes of pigmeats all within a few blocks of my front door? Who needs to ever get laid, with weekends like this?