I'm bound to get this story wrong, because I heard it from Sr. Margarita Aloysius (not her real name), and that was a while ago. That is to say, I wasn't directly involved in this story, although my blog was.
Sr. Margarita Aloysius (not her real name) and Juan Jose (also not his real name) were betting about something or other (I really can't remember what that was about now--do feel free to fill that part in, you two). Sr. Margarita Aloysius won the bet. The prize was a bottle of scotch. But since Juan Jose had moved out of town, getting the bottle of scotch to her was a problem. So he called up a local liquor store, gave them his credit card, and asked them to hold a bottle in the name of "Sr. Margarita Aloysius"--in that exact name.
Our dear Sr. Margarita Aloysius had to drive up to the liquor store and ask the two random guys at the checkout if they were holding a bottle of scotch for a Sr. Margarita Aloysius. Of course, the liquor store did not receive such requests every day, and so the men confessed their intrigue in the whole situation. Everyone ended up happy, I think: Sr. Margarita with the scotch, Juan Jose for embarrassing her, and the liquor store employees.
Juan Jose, being a child of the modern world, googled the name, "Sr. Margarita Aloysius," to see if anything came up. Of course, this blog is the main thing that comes up (and the only thing if you use quotation marks). And he's been a faithful reader ever since... (Okay, I'm also not sure about that last part, but I hope so. Also: I'm not sure if it's clear from this post, but Juan Jose and I are real-life friends, I just keep my blog a fairly strict secret in the hopes that I will not screw up my employment chances as a result of occasional semi-public pseudonymous ranting. So he had to find out about it in a fairly roundabout way.)
[Picture: Juan Jose likes soccer (or "football," as he calls it), and so I've posted a picture of a soccer ball on fire, in honor of that fact.]
2 comments:
juan jose takes the cake for nick names
I have but one amendment to this story - it was fine Kentucky bourbon, not scotch.
And I would elaborate with the best bit of the whole scenario - when I walked in I said, nervously, to the guys at the counter, "I think you have a bottle of bourbon for me...a guy from Michigan called...has an accent..." Hard, skeptical stares.
"Is this ringing any bells?"
Guy at the counter, firmly: "Yeah, it's ringing a bell. And you would be..."
Me: "Sr. Margarita Aloysius?"
Guy at the counter: "Bwahahahahahaha! Hey, Bill, it's not a joke! This is Sr. Margarita Aloysius! Come meet Sr. Margarita Aloysius! Here's your bourbon, hon."
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