I'm not sure that I even need to write the rest of this post. I'm guessing that you have already filled in the blanks regarding last night's dinner conversation which included way too much information. I was happy that Charles Aznavour was just a little too loud in the background and the table just a little too wide for me to clearly hear every word divulged by the oaf opposite me who felt obliged to recount, and repeat with imaginary scalpel-wielding cutting motions for emphasis, the excruciating details of his visit to a hospital to resolve a painful boil on his ass. By the end of the story, I felt that I too had been subjected to an unpleasant experience, without benefit of anesthetic.
