If you take a chance on finding me in by buzzing my doorbell on a Friday night, it probably means I'm too tired to go out after a week of work. I will courteously let you in, but don't plan on staying all night.
Don't arrive drunk and then get drunker by drinking all the wine you find in my refrigerator.
Don't monopolize the conversation by insisting on remembering and detailing every pinky-sized penis you've encountered in your former active years. That only makes me self-conscious.
Don't grab one of my Nikons and try to take a picture of me since the one I took of you made you look old. First of all, you're drunk, you can't afford to replace the camera you're tossing around. Secondly, wait another year or so, that same picture will make you look young.
My mother spent a lifetime instilling a sense of manners in me that still today prevents me from throwing you out of my home. But she never told me not to put it on the Internet, so I might feel perfectly free to tell the world about you the next morning.
'Course, I still love you, punkin, so please come again.
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