A while back, while livin' in New York City, I became acquainted with this guy named Harry Vincent. He was somethin' else. Ol' Vince liked to show off a lot, as shown by his daily food regimen of booze and loose city girls. It was pretty tough on the ego hangin' around him; I had recently started my so-called writing career and the cash wasn't rollin' in like I had planned. When Vince and I would go to the local bistro, he'd usually surround himself with a sensual panorama of mouth-watering full course treatment. I, on the other hand, stuck to the crusty French bread, topping it with cold, unspreadable butter. He'd drink some of the finest grape nectar your palate could ever reach, while I would stick with some tasty tap.
Ok, maybe he was a bit of a jerk, I'll adm View the rest of this article
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