Last week I attended a going away party for two very dear friends. About the midpoint of an evening that was quickly descending into delightful debauchery, I stood on the bar to offer a toast to the guests of honor. I held court in all of my bombastic glory for at least ninety seconds extolling their virtues and explaining why DC was to become less interesting with their departure. Just after the cheers, but before I climbed down from the bar, someone shouted “hey Refugee, your fly is down.” At least I was among friends.
If You Can’t Flash Your Friends, Who Can You Flash?