The hens drank my Hen!
Last night was bunko night and my wife was hosting, so the child and I were booted from the house lest we dampen the party vibe. We ate dinner and ran errands and channel-hopped relentlessly on the XM in search of songs that would satisfy us both. We had a good time and returned home at the appointed time.
But we couldn't get close to the house, because the bunko group's cars filled the driveway and lined the street. So, we parked down the street and slipped into the basement. Thirty minutes later, the party was still going strong. For a party is what it was. My wife and her friends would rather socialize then play.
Tired of our forced exile, the child and I went upstairs, but we had no real dampening affect on the affair, and we retreated to our respective rooms. Finally, the party broke up, and I emerged from the cocoon, and discovered what I believe to be the engine behind the party: my Old Speckled Hen was gone!
My wife, seeing my shock, asked "Would it make you feel better to know that they really liked it?"
While I am glad to discover that these fine ladies have excellent taste in malted barley and hops, the answer is no, not really.