Stalin's self-destructive habits

I am so pissed off at my daddies. Yesterday, after I brought mirth and joy to the set, what did they do with me? They left me behind in a Saks bag while they ran off to the Delacorte to see "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?", with Kathleen Turner and Bill Irwin in the lead roles, and go hobnob with VIPs.

They've done this before, running off to Yankee Stadium without me.

Well, no more. I have my own friends, and I don't need you to have a good time, daddies. I have learned my lesson.

One of these friends - she shall remain nameless - saw me struggling in my confinement, and, no doubt entranced by my handsome fins and fetching smile, asked me to join her party. She had heard, it seems, of my conversational brilliance and mean dancefloor routine.

Then, out popped the Merlot, which I'm not too sure I tolerate as well as a plain old margarita.

We danced; we sang; we discussed penguin-
hunting; and then, it happened.

I was sat on.

It happened so quickly.

And it was, as I was tearfully reassured, an accident. But imagine my headache now, if you can.

No help from my daddies, of course; they're just muttering smugly about 'the wages of sin.'