Bad dog; no biscuit.

My bad. I must retract a statement I made yesterday. Alas, there comes a time in every man's life when he must step up to the plate and admit he 'accidentally' screwed the pooch. Yes, folks, even I make the occasional error. I know it's hard to believe.

I was, for some time, laboring under the mistaken impression that my old buddy Sir James was a huge and loyal fan of that oasis of slime known affectionately as Lost Wages. Apparently, I was -- ahem -- wrong.

No, my beloved friend only goes there to play some game called 'Texas Hold 'em' (something that sounds vaguely like what happens to farm animals in remote parts of Dubya's home state, but I digress). Otherwise, he hates it. Probably not on the intense, visceral, lunch-regurgitating level that I do, but nevertheless I accused him of loving the place, and he only goes there for the Poker. He also only reads Playboy for the articles, but that's another story which I have already related.

Anyway, sorry, amigo. Next time I put my foot in my mouth, I'll wash away the toe jam first.

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