It was a very nice party. Ken and Kathy’s granddaughter looked lovely in her communion dress. There were, of course, lots of kids there, and all of them had inherited the gene that drives children to run constantly and slide when exposed to a large, open floor. There were well=behaved and there were no bumps or bruises. The food was excellent and the cocktails were plentiful.

On the center of each table was a dish full of pieces of “white chocolate” in various holy shapes. Of course, ol’ Jimbo thought that they were pats of butter, and I damned near gagged when someone at the table popped one of them into her mouth. That brain fart provided the Usuals with a fair amount of ammunition with which to break my stindeens for the next hour or so.

After the party concluded and the normal people went home, the Usual Suspects all migrated to the bar, where we proceeded to keep the bartender hopping. After everyone was pretty well oiled, we decided we needed what to eat.

We proceeded to a local place named “Joe’s Bar.” No kidding; that’s the name of the place. Like a co-ed rugby team, we descended on the small dining room in the back of the saloon. By this time, it was damned near ten o’clock, and we had been at it since 1 PM. We ordered more beer and stuffed ourselves with Taylor Ham and melted cheese on hard rolls, with onion rings on the side. Genuine Jersey fare to cap off a genuine Jersey shindig.

It must have been a great party, because today I feel as if I had been hit by a bus.