I wasn’t expecting to see who I saw when the doorbell rung. It was the little shithead Gaston, who hadn’t been part of my life since last summer when he passed out at TC’s bar and grill after chugging my beer and eating my nachos when I went to the bathroom. (see ‘Gaston’ in categories.)
“You’ve been missed,” I said. “Not by me, of course, but by Jim and Mike and Jordy and others. Where’s Gaston? they would ask. And franky, I couldn’t care less where you were.”
“I was in Las Vegas,” replied the little bugger. “And I’ve brought back pictures. Where’s your beer?”
So here’s some photos of Gaston’s trip to Vegas. No wonder I’m losing my hair.