Bottle Party

The after party at the end of the water bottle convention was the stuff of legend. All of the bottles would gather together in the Magnolia Ballroom and dance the night away, letting loose all the frustrations of work, the pent up energy from sitting in dull meetings all week. They would rant about their bosses, rave about the good speakers, and mercilessly joke about the presenters who clearly had no idea what they were talking about. They schmoozed. They networked. On the whole, everyone had a pretty good time. But the after party at the end of the 2008 convention almost ended it for everyone.

It started typically enough, but when the usual DJ, an oldies and slow jams kind of fellow took ill, his replacement DJ Dubstep had to fill in at the last minute without warning. From the moment the bass dropped, every bottle present knew things were different. The booming beats vibrated them down to the very liquids of their souls. The bottles rippled and sloshed like never before, and the laser lights reflected through them, turning each into a glorious, gyrating kaleidoscope, a prismatic wonder unleashed.

In the morning, the hotel staff found the whole lot of them undressed and passed out, piled atop one another on the floor. There were awkward apologies. Nervous glances toward the ground. Excuses about intoxication. Everyone accepted the story, but no one believed it. After all, it was pretty clear that no one had gotten drunk the night before.

- Originally mailed to Karen Murphey of Chicago, Illinois

B-Boy Cat

All the ladies love a bad boy, and for cats, it's no exception. Coleridge T. Whiskers lived by his own rules, and beneath his fur had a belly tattoo that read ALLEY LIFE and across his back, YOLNT. When he was supposed to be studying, he would throw his notebooks on the floor and practice his sweet b-boy backspins instead. In fact, there was no contest he wouldn't attempt to settle in a dance off: who took a sweet feline home, who rode shotgun, who got the last hit of catnip.

At school, the teachers would get on to him after breaking into a butterfly-windmill-backflip into a headspin in the middle of a lecture. “Mister Whiskers,” they would stay, “behave this instant!”

“You must have me confused,” he would say. “Mister Whiskers is my father's name. You can call me Coolcat.”

The teachers would roll their eyes, but the girls would swoon. “You're heading down a bad path, Mister Whiskers,” they would say, but he wouldn't listen. They were talking to his dad.

He did end up poorly. Too many fights, too much attitude and he got kicked out of the house, just another homeless alley cat begging for scraps and digging in dumpsters. Sometimes, he and the other strays would descend on the same can only to find one fish bone to nibble on. Coolcat wasn't worried though. He had a dance move for just such occasions.

- Originally mailed to M. Wilkes of Ridgeland, Mississippi