Not Much To Report, Squadron B.

We did a lot of cleaning yesterday; there was a lot of shit that had to be thrown away if we were ever going to make Randy's "all foosball all the time" room a reality. We don't clean well together, though; Randy is a keeper and I'm a thrower awayer. We started out fairly judicious with one another but as the afternoon wore on I'd find him cradling a bent wire hanger like a sleeping infant and weeping, and he'd catch me frantically throwing everyone's ski clothes and baby pictures into the garbage. It was all worth it in the end though. A whole room devoted to a three-legged foosball table with no ball. We're grownups.

UPDATE: You know that the foosball table is way too close to the wall when, while foosing with a tangerine, you get stabbed in the liver by the overzealous defense.