The Madison County Gentleman's Club Is Probably A Metaphor

I was banished from the Madison County Gentleman's Club for what they termed unbecoming behavior. There was no opportunity for an appeal, no three strikes and your out. One minute I was a member in good standing, the next it was all over. At least when my ex-wife asked for a divorce, I could see the warning signs, if only in hindsight.

Good luck demanding a refund. The complaints desk is located next to the breakfast bar. Members only.

I feel like there's got to be a better way to run a club. Evicted when I was just getting comfortable.

Hindsight

Debbie got high last night.

Her conscience weighed on her, but not enough to refuse her friends. There was no explicit peer pressure. Rather, not joining in would have meant that she'd forever be considered apart from them..

Once the high came on, her reservations disappeared. It was the best decision she'd ever made.

Twelve hours later, lying in bed as the guilt tries to set in along with the nausea, she's no longer so sure. Hindsight suggests getting high was a mistake.

Debbie remembers kissing Eric Bradshaw and decides that no one listens to hindsight. No one cool anyway.

Proof Of Concept

In hindsight, it a was generous offer by the aliens. Submit to genetic engineering and humanity's intelligence would be doubled.

They certainly have demonstrated what we missed out on. We were far too suspicious of the motives of others.

I shake the trotter of Lily, a piebald pig who took a scant five minutes to beat me at chess.

"Now that you're the most intelligent species on Earth, is there any need for mankind any more?"

She yawned. "They gave us intelligence, but you have opposable thumbs. There's going to be plenty of manual work for you humans to do."

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement

Cat And Mouse

"If I ever see you here again, I'll kill you."

So began their game of cat and mouse. Every night, Owen skirted past the Clover Patch, careful never to show his face where O'Riley might see him. O'Riley kept his shotgun under the bar, hoping for the day Owen crossed the bar's threshold.

Owen lamented he'd never again be able to sip of the island's best stout. It seemed especially unfair, with him being the bar's owner and its chief brewer, while O'Riley was just a bartender. Hiring a belligerent alcoholic to tend bar was in hindsight a poor decision.