It is upon us. These dark days have been crouching nearby and are now prepared to spring: The Fall of our once Grand and Glorious Empire.
But as we endure these troubled times, I ponder, as I often do. And I come to the Conclusion that we are nothing so much as a product of our senses: our Sense of Smell, Taste, Touch; our Sense of Humor. Therefore, in appreciation of all of our Senses, I call you together! I call you together to celebrate Life! I call you together to drink, and to dance, and to fiddle while Rome burns! I call you to: The Fall of the Empire Party!
Come, and let the perfume of strange liquors embrace you! Delight in the exotic; eat figs and pears, and lick the sweet juice from your fingers. Baklava, sugared fruits, nutmeats from around the globe. Melon, red grape, black plum. Honey, cinnamon, saffron, rosewater. All the earthly pleasures of the world await, and you have but to reach out and pluck them.
All this debaucherous behavior needs but an Outlet, and here it is: The home of Biscuit and Mike. Sunday the 14th. Four o'clock in the afternoon. Wear togas; dress as your favorite Fallen Empire; wear velvet and watered silk; come in nothing but a top hat. To contribute to the day's events, but a trifle is requested: a few dollars here or there to defray the cost of importing these rare and delicate delectables, or perhaps a bottle of some endangered vintage, scented by tropical airs, carried by hand from beyond the dunes of Farthest Araby -- or perhaps a more common vintage, but only if tendered with a Sense of deepest Irony. Bring nothing else but yourselves, and your Senses of Whimsy and Adventure! Please respondez-vous, as they say in France, as soon as possible. As the world crumbles beneath our feet, let those feet be dancing ones!