In the air-conditioned lounge, I met a man from Houston who said his name was something or other – “but just call me Jimbo” – and he was here to get it on. “I’m ready for anything, by God! Anything at all. Yeah, what are you drinkin’?’
I ordered a Margarita with ice but he wouldn’t hear of it: “Naw, naw . . . what the hell kind...
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