One might say that Lyle is back.

Lyle breezed into the house this afternoon, if anything about that man can be described as breezy. Certainly not his bouquet, which was, as per usual, replete with sweaty soiled dungarees, an epidermis of cheap cigarettes, and hot gin sicking up through his salted pores. It seems his time among the Scots did nothing to educate his ways; I would not be surprised if a faint scent of unfiltered "Marlboro Reds" and violently expectorated haggis hung in the air over all of Speyside.

His first act of homecoming was, surprisingly, to kiss the soil. Or rather, the foyer parquet. I mean to say, fall down and vomit on the floor. Ah, that rather more captures the spirit of the engagement. Onward ho.

Having emptied himself of several pints of brownish liquid, as well as an alarming volume of fully intact spaghetti noodles (does the man not chew?) he rolled over, yelled at the underside of the antique sewing table, and punched feebly into the air before falling into a deep sleep. Ethically unable (by just the shortest of noses, mind you) to let him lie on his back, I rolled him onto his side, although I must admit in my agitated state I did roll him back into the puddle. Due to the lovely level nature of our flooring it had mostly dissipated and did not provide adequate moisture upon which to choke, but his cheek did rest rather sweetly upon a bit of the pale pasta. By way of completing the tableau, Téodor unrolled one of his condoms and, using two ballpoint pens, worked it thoroughly into the stinking mass. For good measure, we added a Matchbox toy car and a few pence we came across in Lyle's pocket.

Knowing full well of the Onstads' Draconian enforcement of the "clean up your own vomit" mandate, we tittered not a little upon imagining Lyle scooping this mystery of an evening into a pail the next day.