One night, a few friends were sitting around in their local establishment, drinking beverages of an adult nature, and making various witty comments, as they usually did instead of whatever they were supposed to be doing. Everything was going along as it normally did, when one of them, due to a combination of alcohol and unusually slippery velvet seat cushions, slid right off the bench on which she was seated and underneath the table her friends were still all seated around. So as to not call undue attention to herself, she stayed seated and tried to play it off like she had done it on purpose. Her friends were not fooled, and, as was the style at the time, began to mock her. They dubbed her "Under the Table Mabel", and to show her how much they cared, never let her forget it.
As you may have guessed, that classy broad was me.
I have managed to climb out from under the table, but I got to thinking - why? Wasn't it much better when I was under the table, surrounded by friends, making smart ass remarks, drinking copious amounts of booze? Hell yes. So I'm heading back under. Metaphorically, at least.
Won't you join me under the table? Just a bit of advice. Be careful not to smack your head, and try to keep your arms and legs inside the confines of the table at all times. And for the love of god, don't bogart the gin.
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