I was at a party with my friends, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg. It was a few weeks ago and it was a standard party. Everybody was having a moderately good time, but I noticed a peculiar sensation. Nobody would drink the punch. Any time I would go to grab a drink of punch or potentially liven it up with some alcohol, I would always be scooted away, and he said, "No, you do not understand. It is a Houston event." It was an odd statement to hear that. A very odd statement.
I asked my friend Julius, is there some tradition of never drinking the punch? Julius said, "Wait, and you shall see." It was just then the door was violently kicked open and you saw the meanest-looking biker you ever did see. Everybody froze, terrified, unwilling to look as the slow clanking of his boots went closer and closer to the punch, which he grabs and walked out. We could hear him announcing to what must have been the rest of the biker gang, "Fellas, I got the punch," and they screamed with joy as they rode off.
I asked Julius what it was and he said, "you have not been in Houston for long."
I said, "No, I have not."
"Why, that is the famous Punch Gang who treasures punch above all else."
I said, "Ah. But surely they'd much like it with alcohol."
It was then Ethel came up to me and said, "No, that would spoil the pureness of it for them. They aren't in it for the alcohol. They're in it for the straight punch." I thought that beautiful and I acquiesced.