Laugh about it all again.
For all you Brit Lits, quick wits, and misfits.
Our brother across the pond (that would be Derek Thompson) has decided that our uppers are not quite stiff enough, and is giving our contest You Didn’t Write That more than lip service. (Which is good because my lips have not been serviced in a while)
You still have a few days to enter the contest yourself, to help beat back the British invasion (well, actually just Derek and Jack Horne) and see that the cup remains in The Americas.
Here is Derek’s historical tome to The Boston Tea Party, which apparently is brewing something steep in this year’s election cycle.
The Party’s Over
by Sir Derek Thompson
“Say what you like about Mary-Ann, she knew how to party,” Carrie raised her glass. The friends around her shuffled a little and edged away to private conversations.
“Didn’t you two both fall in love with the same guy?”
She turned to see a stranger – round glasses and hunched shoulders. A reporter, had to be.
“Who do you work for?” her eyes glimmered malevolently, or it may have been the reflection of the wine.
He flashed a card and she caught the word ‘Private Detective’. Not a reporter then, but a lower form of life.
“I don’t suppose I could have a minute or two of your time. Tomorrow, maybe, when you’re not so…”
“Tired and emotional?” she laughed, sloshing her wine over the rim like a blood offering to the floor.
He was still waiting.
“You ought to have heard my eulogy, sonny,” she sniffed, gulping down enough wine to fuel her next sentence. “And you ought to get your facts right. It was the guy and me both falling for Mary-Ann. And she fell for both of us.”
“You didn’t write that?” his eyes retreated behind the glass.
“I didn’t have to,” she smacked her lips. “Everyone knows my room was next to theirs on their honeymoon. Still is, as a matter of fact.”