From: eaeu282@orion.oac.uci.edu (Ching-I Chen)
Subject: Delilah tries her hand at this...
Newsgroups: alt.callahans
Organization: University of California, Irvine
Date: 26 Jan 93 00:02:04 GMT

  

	Delilah, having just fallen asleep in her Ecology class during a
most (un)interesting slide show about squirrel speciation habits, staggers
up to the bar.  Noticing there are no barstools -- she makes a mental note
to thank all the wonduhful peepul who sent her the FAQ -- she leans against
it, propping her face between her hands.
	She yawns.  And orders a drink.  (Darn, she thinks, what was that 
bartender's name?  She thinks of squirrels and nocturnal bats.)  "Hi, I'm
utterly new here and don't know what I'm doing.  Can you give me
something politically incorrect to drink," she asks.  The bartender hands 
her a beautifully crafted glass... but it's empty.  "What's this?" she
ponders, staring at the glass.
	"It's a Dan Quayle," he replies.  "Pretty to look at, but otherwise
empty."
	Smiling a little, Delilah puts the empty glass down on the bar.  
"What if I were a conservative NRA-supporting gun-toting Republican and took
slight offense at that?"
	"You're obviously a Democrat," he answers.
	"How can you be so sure?"
	"The outdated but otherwise nice-looking Clinton-Gore in '92 pin is
something of a good clue.  Other than that, you have this general Democrat
aura to you."
	Delilah raises an eyebrow.  "I'm not sure... is that a compliment or
a well-veiled insult, jabbing at my political beliefs."
	"See it however you choose," he shrugs.  "It's just a drink."
	"Uh huh," Delilah mutters.  She picks up the glass and stares at it,
trying not to yawn again.  "So what do you give to someone with a distinctly
Republican aura who comes in and asks for something politically incorrect to
 drink?"
	The bartender places another expensive looking hand-crafted glass
before Delilah.  It's exactly the same as the other one, and it's empty, too.
	Pointing to the new glass, she asks, "And what's this called?"
	The bartender shrugs slightly and replies, "It's a Clinton-Gore ticket.
Pretty to look at, but otherwise empty."
	"Ah," Delilah comments insightfully.  She takes her glass and puts a
raggedy dollar bill on the bar.  "Thanks for the Dan Quayle."
	Wiping a spot on the bar, the bartender says, "I wonder how many 
Democrats have ever said that."
	"Believe me, the ones who were stand-up comics have said it alot."
Taking her empty glass, Delilah staggers around the bar, trying to get used to
the place.  Still a little drowsy, she announces to anyone within hearing 
distance that this is her first post.
	"This is my first post, you know," she says to an unamused coat rack.
	She thinks a moment, pithy little thoughts travelling the empty 
highways and byways of her mind.  What am I supposed to do with the glass? she
thinks to herself.  Roast it.  No, toast it?  She glances around, her eyes
a little blurred.  There seems to be no toaster around.  And how would one
even go about toasting glass? she thinks.  Wouldn't that melt it?
	Wait a minute, she thinks.  She remembers something about her sister's
wedding... when her dad got up and raised his glass and said something, well,
she couldn't remember it now, but it was pretty sappy, and wasn't that a 
toast?
	Delilah clears her throat.  "I only slept three hours last night,"
she announces to a passerby who seems completely nonplussed.
	She clears her throat again, louder than the last time.  "A toast!"
she says.  "To -- to..."  Just put in some philanthropic cause right here,
she thinks.  "To getting enough sleep, programming your VCR, and trying to
figure out how to straighten out your utterly screwed up life."  With that,
she raises her glass, then brings it down to her mouth to drink.
	"That's strange," she mumbles, "I don't remember drinking it."  She
then looks around, knowing there's something to do next.  THROW IT, a voice
in her head says.  At what? she replies.  AT SOMETHING, the voice answers.
	"Okay," she murmurs, her eyes glazed over.  She raises the glass
above her head again and announces with a somewhat slurred voice, "To
throwing your glass at something!"
	She smiles joyously at everything and everyone in sight and readies
herself for the throwing.

	But before she can commit the act, her eyes roll in their sockets,
cross, and then close.  She falls straight back onto the floor, glass still 
in hand.  As she lies there, a faint smile emerges on her lips.

	Eyes still shut, she mumbles again, for only the close at hand to
decipher: "This is my first post, and i hope i...."  Her words trail off.

    	And there, in the middle of the bar, she sleeps.