Me and I, we’re democratic types, so I put it to a vote. I asked my smartass friends what I should name my new gentleman’s group that does nothing but sit around in the dark drinking gin and listening to Cab Calloway. The best answer was “The Corpses Most Likely to be Found by an Inquisitive Mailman”.
Anyway. I call the meetings to order, and there is never any time for new business. Still too much old business on the docket. Drinking beer and heartache. I move to take the floor, and fall down face-first. “Seconded!” comes a slurred voice. “The motion passes!” Shouts a chorus of sullen ghosts. There’s a sound of clinking glasses and then silence. The irony is that we will never reach a quorum.