This time tomorrow, I should know a lot more about San Angelo than I do now. We'll be visiting Miss Hattie's Bordello Museum - particularly of interest as I understand they sometimes have re-enactors performing there.
You wouldn't be able to sleep, either.
Ah, the enduring glamor of the sex trade! Last week, a friend and I were lamenting the dearth of variety among 1-900 lines, and came up with the idea of a discount phone sex service - oh, say, $1.50 for the first minute, and just 39 cents a minute thereafter - which would be so cheap because it would be a random grab bag. You might get some sultry-voiced individual of the gender of your preference, describing in detail all the borderline illegal things he or she was going to do to you; or you might get Ernest Borgnine offering you a Siberian toenail massage. And no, you don't get to hang up and call back.
Or as in the present case, you could get a lapful of Slappy White, purring fish breath in your face and digging his claws affectionately into your bare legs.
I gotta get out of town.