Pulling his shirt back on, Weedpacket comes back to the bar. Gratefully accepting a butterscotch schnapps from Elizabeth ("You remembered!") he sits himself on the bartop mat and addresses the gathered crowd.
"Well, thank you for this kind surprise. I'm not going to make a speech, 'cos I'm terrible at them. Maybe when I get to 10000, yeah? If I keep my rate up that will be sometime in mid June.
"But in the meantime I will raise a toast to dalecosp, who seems to have little better to do with his time than act as the site's social historian. Little seems to escape him and his squad of faithful scripts. He claims to not know who I actually am (I don't think Zeev's ever been to NZ), but I suspect that it's a ruse - he's probably got everyone's inside leg measurements squirrelled away in a database somewhere and come Christmas will surprise us all with tailored green tights and the news that we'll all be playing elves in a North Junior High panto ("No, don't worry! I know some guys they'll be glad to help out!").
"Cheers! Salut! Yamas! and whatever other term you may wish to add!
"And now I have to get down from here and change my pants. I think I've wet them."