No, No, Ernesto
It was such a Non-Event. Firstly, the storm kept changing direction as much an Italian Army and then there were the pititful broadcasts from the beaches. You know: the one where the reporters are nearly sucked into the ocean by a large, tentacle arm while you watch; except there is little to watch.
Since horror was the order of the day, I played a little joke on Mike and Thomas , known drunken nightlife columnist and dear friend (no, not slut, or "butt boy") I announced there was no more Grey Goose in the house.
It was at this point that Thomas countered that he was "bringing" four or six "hot latinos" to liven up our party. ( Unempressed, I made a noticeable turn of the head to count how many stars were in the American flag in the corner,) but Mike replied (with the authoritativeness of a lawyer in training) that he "would enforce promissory estoppel (a phrase, in legal talk, which basically means you better, honey, put up the goods or you be doomed).
Thomas looked down, befuddled: I wondered what he thought, what the remark made him do, and I said, "NO Thomas; he doesn't mean you're constipated."