Blackjack Mulligan looking head/cowboy hat. (truly... a 1/2-pint dead-ringer)... Anywho... I told my campaign manager; I'd go out there (the dancefloor) and let him hit me a few times; take a dive... and then you come running out and count "4" for king kong Bundy. (Just to make the little guy feel bigger... better... right?) So, right at punch 4o... I turned my upper body to sit my beer on the Cheers Lounge dancefloor drink rail... and the little bastard hauled of and hit me right in the doink! (Not the rocks... the doink). So, I figured... what kinda 3o4 'peoples' Delegate would I be if I let the people haul off and hit me in the doink?!? So... I got him under the arms... back up across the dance floor (did not have enuff run-up-range) and back up sum mo'... took off, TOP speed with everything I could put on it... and rammed he and his 1o-gallon black cowboy up thru said drink rail. Mosaic chips when flying and he hung there in air suspended like a bobble head gone 'rong for a few secs... then he fell outta the hat and hit the floor; out. Doneski. Sparked. ------------------------------------------------------------------ So, me and my campaign manager are jus' sitting there knocking down Alabama Slammers... 'bout 45 minutes later... and I felt this pecking away (knocking, actually) on my right quad or side-thigh... and there the little bastard was! So, he procedes to let me know... "I just want you to know... I've been hit before, and even my daddy did not hit me like that." "You throw pretty well..." (tipped his cowboy hat cocksure back, and said...) "Let's call it a, draw." I looked at my campaign manager and again grabbed him under the arms and this time picked him up and sat him on the end of the bar with us! We had drinks for the rest of the nite... ======================================================= Now we are all fast-friends. We look out for each other... I even contributed to the fund-raiser to buy (Randy, the midget) a new trike! May St.John the Dwarf bless and intercede... 💯, b.street