So the Captain called me up back in the summer, on a Saturday when I coincidentally had nothing to do (being gainfully unemployed and generally too lazy to do anything worthwhile, like post new stories). Turns out "Leetha" (from A Night At The Reverb) was hosting a party at a friend's house, and she'd specifically invited both of us to attend. Evidently, despite her assertions that I was "angry" and "scary" and what all else, she enjoyed my company and wanted me to partake in this soiree. I was puzzled, but not entirely displeased with this development; despite what I might say, I really do hate it when people don't immediately love and/or worship me on sight.
Upon asking the Captain what the vibe for the evening was to be, the following conversation ensued.
Cap: They're calling it "Pornopalooza".
Al: (pause) They're calling it what?
Cap: Yeah, I know.
Al: What is entailed in a "Pornopalooza"?
Cap: Basically it's an excuse for Leetha and her slutty friends to get together, dress like porn stars, and get raving drunk. And I have front-row tickets to this drama of decadent debauchery, dude. What the hell would you do without me?
At this point, Caligulic images of drunken, scantily-clad co-eds cavorting in time to Earth Wind and Fire jams and licking various edibles off one another, with Ron Jeremy's daunting manhood and Jenna Jameson's ample bosoms dominating the television screens, were dancing in my head.
Ladies and gentlemen, thanks to the Captain once again, we have the makings of a winning night.
Cap: Oh, and another thing - Leetha's been talking up the fact that you're a musician ... the girl running
the party is a huge Big and Rich fan. They want you to come wearing nothing but your guitar.
Once again, my modest musical expertise has its intended effect: to make that which is otherwise mediocre inestimably more attractive. Though no-one, anywhere, ever needs to see me wearing nothing but a guitar, I agree to bring it with me in the hopes that its siren song will net me one or more of the aforementioned Big and Rich co-eds. Save a horse, ride a cowboy indeed. (I just had to say it)
The Captain and I swiftly made arrangements to meet up at my place for some pre-drinking (I never learn) before the party, and shortly thereafter I received a phone call from an old and dear high school friend, “Marsha”. Back in the day, Marsha and I hung out together in many of the same wrong crowds, so to speak, and to this day I’ve met few women who can match my biting wit and burning cynicism pound-for-pound. It also helps that Marsha is very attractive, in that classic, thumb-through-your-dad’s-Playboys kind of way. When she asked if I wanted to hang out, I promptly invited her to Pornopalooza.
Mar: They’re calling it what?
Al: Yeah, I know. But it sounds like it might be a good time.
Mar: I don’t know…sounds a little creepy at best, and conceivably lame at the worst…
Al: The Captain’s bringing free booze.
Mar: I’m in.
There are reasons Marsha and I get along.
Al: So you know the dress code, right?
Mar: I’m guessing Slut Couture is the order of the evening.
Al: You got it. Think you can find something appropriate?
Mar: To whom the fuck do you think you are speaking? You know me better than that. I’ll see you in
two hours.
True to form, the Captain and Marsha showed up simultaneously shortly thereafter. The Captain came bearing his traditional gifts in the form of Olympian bottles of rum and gin, and Marsha came bearing her traditional gifts of good looks and poor attitude.
Marsha had decked herself out in what can be best described as Dominatrix Marilyn Monroe, with an amusingly ironic accessory: a large, somewhat gaudy silver crucifix hanging around her neck. When I asked about it, she merely replied “I figured Jesus would offset all this leather”. Beautiful.
The Captain, too, had taken the leather route, donning a thin strap of a tie over a teeshirt that read “I might be wrong, but I doubt it”, and leather pants so tight I was surprised he wasn’t speaking in a falsetto. He certainly looked the porn-star part; being that he’s the Captain I was reasonably sure he could pick up and take home at his leisure. The only problem I foresaw for him was the almost insurmountable obstacle of the pants: it would take the Jaws of Life to scrape him out of those things, particularly while drunk. The things we do for fashion.
I quickly realized upon seeing my friends in all their whorish resplendence that I had precisely nothing to wear to an event of this nature. In the end I settled on a 70’s era dress shirt, jeans and a fur shawl thing lent to me by Marsha for the occasion. Topped with a pair of those ridiculous gigantic sunglasses that cover half your face (the ones favoured by the Hollywood elite when they try to walk around sub rosa in public), and I was transformed into a reasonable facsimile of - if not a porn star - at least a porn aficionado.
When we arrived at the designated address, the first red flag went up: this was definitely not what I’d call ‘student living’. Situated in a reasonably middle-class suburban neighbourhood, the house looked like your run-of-the-mill Cleaver home, complete with little picket fence and a station wagon in the driveway. This didn’t at all resemble the sort of seamy college dive I was expecting for an event called “Pornopalooza”. I decided something was amiss, and turned to the Captain for clarification, but his face remained impassive and he refused to make eye contact.
We walked in, unannounced, through the side door and entered a well-appointed and entirely-too-clean kitchen, where we were greeted by a jubilant Leetha. She was wearing what amounted to suspenders attached to a glorified belt, both of which barely covered her naughty bits, coupled with stiletto heels that thrust her midgety form precariously into the air where she was currently swaying and skittering to and fro while endeavouring to run towards us. She enveloped the Captain and I in a sloppy, breast-popping hug which nearly bowled us both over as we tried to steady The Amazing Stilt Girl before she nailed her pug-face on the counter.
Lee: I’m THHOOO happy you guyth could make it! Thith ith going to be THHOOO much fun!
Bear in mind this girl is next to impossible to understand under sober circumstances: throw in a goodly amount of whatever she’d been drinking, and it was like trying to comprehend a drunk Newfie with a mouth full of marbles. Stilt Girl tap-danced her way back across the kitchen to rejoin her friends, which was the first time I actually noticed that anyone else was present.
There were a total of six girls sitting at the kitchen table, with what appeared to be a small mini-bar (read: tiny bottles of girly liquor) set forth in front of them. My eyes swept casually over the “slutty friends” the Captain had mentioned, but I was distracted from my appraisal when my ears caught a sound I hadn’t heard since middle school, and had fervently hoped I’d never hear again: the sound of mocking girlish laughter.
Anyone who’s ever walked the hallways of a high school with toilet paper stuck to their shoe, or an unbeknownst “Kick Me” sign plastered to their back, will be acutely familiar with this fiendish noise. It is the bane of nerds, geeks, dweebs, dorks, and other social misfits everywhere. It begins as a titter; a Bacchian giggle barely noticeable to the untrained ear, and quickly escalates into a full-scale Harpy cackle, usually accompanied by finger pointing, conspiratorial whispering and faces contorted in exaggerated disgust.
Now, given I was a bona-fide theater geek in high school, my ears are more than attuned to catch even the slightest inkling of this esteem-murdering pubescent barrage. What I couldn’t figure out for the life of me was why six grown women would, alcohol notwithstanding, revert to junior-high gum-cracking cheerleader mob mentality. So I reappraised the Sinister Six in the hopes of coming to some conclusion.
Which is when I realized that not a girl at the table was a day over 18.
The red alert klaxons immediately started going off in my head. My first coherent feeling was the intense fear of jail that two seasons of “OZ” has instilled in my heart, as I realized that when the police were inevitably called to break up the underage booze-fest, I’d likely be arrested on-sight just for being here and looking significantly older than I am. Leaving aside the fact that I definitely would not be picking up this night (I have some morals), there was therefore a very real danger of imprisonment on suspicion of pedophilia, and I know what they do to dirty old men in the lockup. I ain’t going out like that, I decided, and so turned to leave.
The Captain grabbed my arm, having seen the look of dawning terror and the desire to flee in my eyes, and was very nearly in stitches as he pulled me aside. One look at his face told me all I needed to know: he had known the whole time that this party was a veritable Lolita-fest. The whole time, and yet he’d still subjected me to what might conceivably my last night as an anal virgin, if things went south and the five-oh showed up. There arose in my breast at that moment an intense desire to kill, maim or otherwise severely damage my good friend, who was still wiping the last tears of laughter from his eyes.
Al: You - you - you - YOU MOTHERFUCKER.
Cap: Dude, just calm down.
Al: Man, the cops are gonna come, and they’re gonna think I’m a goddamn pederast, and they’re
gonna throw me in a cell with some dude named Bubba, who’s gonna -
Cap: RELAX, asshole. These girls are all eighteen or older; they just look young. The most that would
happen if the cops showed - and they won’t - would be they’d bust up the party for underage drinking, and
that means they’d be asking everybody for ID. We aren’t that much older than these girls, so they wouldn’t
think you were some creep trolling for the just-come-of-agers. On top of which, the term ‘pederast’ refers
to somebody who likes to sleep with little boys.
Al: (awkward silence) …How did you know that?
Cap: (awkward silence)
Al: Man, regardless - what the hell is this about, anyway? You know I’m not going to take any of
these - these cheerleaders home, and you sure as shit know I’m going to have piss-all in common with any
of them…why am I here? Why am I wasting my life on this?
The Captain didn’t respond. He merely produced the bottle of gin he’d brought and poured me an
extremely large drink, which he handed to me with a wink and a grin. I snatched the booze out of his hands
with fire in my eyes, and proceeded to pour myself the largest gin and tonic known to humanity.
By the time I turned around, the Captain was already mingling (read: shamelessly flirting) with most of the women-in-training and he’d drawn a sizeable crowd of impressionable tweeny-boppers to his side (several more had shown up in the interim), so I decided to watch the show while desperately trying to calm myself down (read: drink as much as possible in a very short time span) and keep from walking right out the door. As I watched, I saw pretty much what I expected to see: the Captain doing his thing and doing it well. What I couldn’t understand was why he was employing the full force of the Captain Game on girls that needed no more cajoling into sexual escapades than a Mike’s Hard Lemonade and a half-assed promise to be their boyfriend later.
It took me a minute to pick up on the fact that what I was viewing was not, in fact, the full force of the Captain Game, but rather a bizarre approximation tailored to netting high-school girls. Where the Captain is normally suave and debonair, the vibe I was currently picking up from him more resembled Robert Romanus’ character from Fast Times at Ridgemont High (the one who knocks up Jennifer Jason Leigh). If we were at some club downtown and the Captain tried to pull off some of the lines he was using right now, he’d be going home very much alone - mostly because not even I would be seen with him after that - but since we were currently hanging out with the Babysitter’s Club, every bit of his bullshit was being eagerly sucked up by his crowd of adoring fans. Seriously, it was like he walked into a chemo ward with a dick that could cure cancer.
Of course, it helped that the sum total IQ present in the room, excepting the Captain, Marsha and myself, probably hovered somewhere just above the double digit mark. Here are some gems:
Slut #1: So, like, what do you, like, you know, do?
Cap: I’m an environmental engineer.
Slut #1: Oh, that’s SO great! I, like, totally respect people who try to build new rainforests and, like, help
the little animals and stuff.
Cap: (to a girl wearing “BootyliciousTM” hot pants, a lace bra and six-inch stilettos) Hey, I really like
your outfit, it looks great.
Slut #2: Oh, thanks! I borrowed it from my sister!
Cap: Must be nice to have an older sister to share clothes with, huh?
Slut #2: Oh no, she’s my younger sister. She’s fifteen.
Seriously. This had nothing to do with having game: this was like Free Sample Day at Costco. I was, in a word, horrified. This was a bona-fide All You Can Eat Buffet, except the table had been picked over by - I’m assuming - everything with two legs and a dick in the Greater Toronto Area. The combination of stupid and STD I could almost tangibly feel in the air was too much for me. I expressed this to the Captain by shaking my head very fast back and forth and pointing to my crotch, mouthing “Your cock will fall off if you throw it in anyone here”.
Either the Captain didn’t hear me, had no concern for the well-being of his genitals, or had no interest in associating himself with the shady half-drunk dude frantically pointing at his own junk. The “women” around him paid absolutely no attention to me (which I’m used to) and continued fawning and ejecting stupid-air from their mouths. I decided I had had about as much as I could take, and so I took a powder, barely acknowledging the Sinister Six as I fled to the deck for a cigarette. To this day I’m sure I could hear their emasculating giggles following me out the door.
As I lit my cigarette and began aggressively sucking back my second Jumbo Gin And Tonic, Marsha joined me on an opposing deck chair. She too had been amused by my miniature freak-out in the kitchen (which Leetha and the Fembots seemed to have missed entirely – go figure) and had come to impart some cynical wisdom to her former drug-buddy.
Mar: Dude, I think you’re missing out on a prime opportunity here.
Al: To do what? Babysit a bunch of drunken pre-sorority whores while what’s left of my self-respect
curls up in a bottle of gin to die?
Mar: No…but I have been reading your blog recently, and it seems as though the best way for us to turn
your frown upside down and start making something worthwhile out of this truly bizarre night - thanks for inviting me, by the way - would be to start feeding you as much booze as possible, and then we’ll spend the night totally fucking with these people. What do you say?
In spite of myself, I felt my lips begin to curl upward at the prospect of taking some measure of verbal revenge on the sort of people who made the sober portions of my high-school career singularly unbearable. That, and I’m kind of a functional asshole anyway, so any excuse to mock and belittle those most deserving is an excuse I’ll jump at.
Mar: (catching my grin) Come on, you know you want to…
Al: I just can’t stay mad when there’s debauchery afoot. And revenge is a dish best served drunk.
Finishing my Big Gulp Gin and butting my smoke, I walked back inside to refresh my drink. It seemed in
my brief absence that the “party” had begun to fill up: there were at least five or six more Slutty Spice
disciples crowding the kitchen, most of whom were drinking coolers or light beer, with the exception of a
few self-styled bad asses that had hit the “hard” stuff - in this case referring mostly to Amaretto or peach
schnapps. I also noticed, to my amusement, that the gender divide was starting to close: several young men
were now populating the miniscule spaces left between the bony hips of the whores-in-training, and if it
was possible they looked even more ridiculous than their female counterparts. Everywhere I looked I saw nothing but skinny white-boy breastbone peeking out from absolutely ridiculous faux-tuxedo tops over top of jeans tight enough to qualify as skin grafts. Toothy grins stuck in the middle of faces not yet mature enough to grow anything more than patchy facial hair, were topped by absurd EMO-boy mop haircuts. I felt like I’d been transported into somebody’s idea of a bad joke.
Now, for those of you that read my stories (you know, all three of you) you must know that what lay before me was akin to a blank canvas, upon which I could paint a veritable masterpiece of mockery. It is my favourite medium, after all. Unfortunately I have to admit that, thanks to the Captain pulling this whole preschool surprise on my unsuspecting ass, I was still more than a little off my game. Fortunately for me, while I was aggressively lubricating my palette of rage with Beefeater-brand hate juice, Marsha was prepping the easel with a brilliant masterstroke of her own.
From the time we came in, Marsha had been attracting all kinds of attention, and not just of the pubescent puppy-boy variety. Seems the Sinister Six has put their thimble-heads together, pooled all three ounces of their combined grey matter, and decided that Marsha was the coolest thing since the Bratz cartoon hit syndication on YTV. The Tweenie Tribe had chosen their queen, and they approached their unsuspecting monarch with all the deference of amateur KISS groupies coming to pay homage at the Altar of Gene.
Now, I’m not trying to belittle Marsha’s character at all because I think she’s great, but if I’m going to be realistic I have to say that young, impressionable girls could probably find a better role model by visiting your average rehab clinic or unemployment office (it’s not as harsh as it sounds - I mean, really, does anybody see me winning any Youth Counselor awards anytime soon? Or ever?). Let me illustrate my point.
After several awkward moments of starstruck ogling, a pop tart wearing what I estimated to be seventeen percent of a Catholic schoolgirl uniform finally approached the elected brood mother.
Tart #1: Uh, uh, Marsha? Can we ask you a question?
Mar: Sure.
A titter of fangirl glee rippled through the hormonal harlots and they eagerly gathered around my friend, the newly-appointed High Priestess of Poon.
Tart #1: So, we were wondering…where, like, did you, like, get your costume? It’s, like, totally the
shiznit!
I often wonder whether white teenage female hip hop fans have ever actually listened to Snoop’s lyrics, or whether they mindlessly repeat these marketing-tool phrases completely out of context. Oh. Wait.
Mar: What costume? I dress like this all the time.
Tarts: Really? Like, where do you work??
Mar: Oh, I’m a stripper.
A palpable silence fell on the room. The only sounds I could make out were the simultaneous flaking-off of cheap caked-on makeup as the collective eyes of every slut-in-training present widened to the size of dinner plates, and the creaking of tight denim as erection after erection sprang to life in the pants of every eager skinny white boy within range. Personally I was on the edge of my seat, waiting to see where this was going to go. I mean, did I mention Marsha is a computer tech analyst? Of course, I shouldn’t have been surprised at the response.
Tarts: THAT IS SO COOL!!!
I have to give Marsha credit - in the ensuing cacophony of awe and excitement, she never lost her poker face. I, on the other hand, shot gin out my nose. That burns, by the way, but I was laughing so hard I didn’t notice at the time. But Marsha didn’t stop there.
Mar: Oh yeah, it’s a great job. The money’s good, lots of men pay attention to me and tell me they’re
in love with me and stuff, and I hardly ever have to give blowjobs to customers. Plus, it makes me feel really attractive, and that’s, like, the best thing ever!
Tart #1: Oh yeah, you’re totally right.
Tart #2: I wish guys would pay that kind of attention to me!
Tart #3: That sounds soooo romantic!
Tart #4: So is your club, like, hiring?
Evil, thy name is Marsha. I can’t hold a candle to that kind of shit. But I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to try.
So Marsha and I, joined by the Captain, once again retired to the deck for a smoke, promising her newfound litter of aspiring exotic dancers that we’d only be a minute. The Captain was suitably impressed with Marsha’s performance and through tears of laughter we congratulated her on tainting an entire roomful of somebody’s daughters. At that moment Marsha fixed me with a pointed stare, lips twisting smugly.
Mar: Okay Al, I just set the bar. Think you can top it?
Cap: I don’t think anybody is going to be able to top that one, Marsha.
Obviously they were in league in the “Call Out Al” camp. Not to be outdone, I slammed back the remainder of my Giant Gin (must have been my fourth or fifth by that time; our main bottle was draining fast) and got unsteadily to my feet.
Al: To whom the fuck do you think you’re speaking? Stick to the whoring, woman, and leave the
abuse to the experts!
Cap: It’s about time - lock and load, here we go.
I walked back into the house, nearly taking the screen door off its track in the process, and began searching alternately for more booze and my first target. All around me, a bizarre comedy was unfolding – it was like an episode of Degrassi Junior High with less clothing. The more rampant sluttiness and awkward advances I witnessed, the more incensed I became. Unable to locate my gin, I wandered back to the kitchen table to see what I could scavenge from the Sinister Six’s mini bar.
I noticed that Slut #2 had gotten herself separated from the rest of the harem, and she was currently lording it over the mini bar, drinking heavily from a glass filled with viscous brown liquid. I realized that I would have to get past her to score any of the remaining liquor, so I decided to be the bigger man and play it sweet.
Al: So, what are you drinking?
It turns out that Slut #2’s copious binge-drinking had let loose all the animosity she held against her daddy for not buying her that pony when she turned seven, and it so happened that yours truly was standing directly in the event horizon of Hurricane Bitch when it struck without warning.
Slut #2: I’m drinking AMARETTO you fucking asshole, what’s it to you? Seriously, why are you even at
this party? It’s called Pornopalooza, and you’re not even dressed like a porn star, not like anybody would want to see you naked, ‘cause you’re so hairy and fat and everything. Like, oh my God, why did Leetha ever invite you? Your friend is pretty cute which makes you look even worse standing next to him! Go find your own fucking booze you LAME-O!
Al: …Wow. I always wondered what it would be like to be verbally owned by a fifteen year-old.
Before she could reply, I walked away from her, swiping a mini bottle of gin on my way, and headed back out to the patio. Somehow the Captain had beaten me inside, found my discarded glass and refilled it yet again, so when I sat down with a bemused expression on my face, he had something to hand me.
Cap: What was that all about?
Al: (taking a deep drink) I don’t know man, but that girl is now my target. Before night’s end, with God as my witness, I vow I’m going to make her cry.
Cap: Dude, God has so little to do with what’s about to happen.
And true to my word, I went to work on this girl. She couldn’t find solace anywhere. I rode her the whole night and didn’t let up for a minute, but here are some exchanges I remember.
When she went to get another drink I was waiting at the bar:
Al: You know, you and alcohol are like Popeye and spinach. Except Popeye gets strong: you just become an even bigger whore.
When she went to the bathroom I happened to be next in line when she came out:
Al: Don’t forget to take your birth control. And apply your herpes cream. (to the guys in line) What? I just did you a favour. It’s like G.I. Joe says – Knowing Is Half The Battle!
I caught her shamelessly flirting with some under-age EMO boy near the front door:
Al: Damn girl, you don’t take long to recover, do you? (to the guy) By the way, if you kiss her and
taste something salty, you might want to ignore it. Just puttin’ it out there brother.
The best part about this constant barrage was that it had a curiously double-edged effect: predictably, all the girls at the party steadily began to hate me more and more as the night wore on, but the guys in attendance thought I was absolutely hilarious. Actually I was being more of a drunken prick than a comedian, but I guess it doesn’t take much to amuse inebriated teenagers.
The piece de resistance came later in the evening. Unbeknownst to me at the time, Marsha had departed due to an early work day the following morning, and as a result I was outside smoking with a bunch of the aforementioned guys that had attached themselves to me. I was regaling them with stories (one of them had asked me how I got the scars on my forehead, so I had to recount the Stair Night) and they were loving it, when Slut #2 came outside and sat down on the bench opposite me across the table and started taking over the conversation. I shut up almost immediately, mostly because I am acutely aware of the inherent value of keeping my mouth shut until I’ve got the right thing to say. Sure enough, the opportunity presented itself rather quickly. Slut #2 was talking to a few of the boys about her outfit, the one she told the Captain she borrowed from her younger sister.
Slut #2: But, like, you have to realize that me and my sister are, like, nothing alike. My mom says we are
but we so totally are not, you know? Like, we’re totally different people! UH!
Load all weapons.
Al: But didn’t you borrow that very classy outfit of yours from said sister?
Slut #2: Duh, she gets her fashion sense from me!
Target in range and locked.
Al: I weep for the future if that’s the case. But then obviously you must be at least a little alike, right?
I mean, if you both want to look like low-rent Spice Girls?
Slut #2: NO! I’m telling you, we are, like, TOTALLY OPPOSITE!
Fire at will.
Al: Then I must conclude that your sister must be attractive, intelligent, chaste, thin, and both of her
eyes must be pointing in the same direction.
Let me explain briefly: this young woman was not at all unattractive (she had too much paint on her face, but that’s a personal preference on my part), nor was she anything resembling heavy-set. She was stupid, yes, and a wanton strumpet, and she did have a barely perceptible lazy eye, but I was much harsher than I needed to be. And for what it’s worth, I did feel kind of bad for bringing so much force to bear on such a small target: I mean, over the course of the night, my treatment of her was akin to using napalm to kill an ant colony. But after years of suffering mental and emotional abuse and anguish at the hands of girls just like her, I felt at least initially justified in totally cutting her down in front of all her friends.
I’ll give her this much, she didn’t cry. What she did do, however, was slam her drink down with enough force to fracture the pint glass it was in, scream at me to fuck off and die, and storm off the deck. For my money, that was just as good. I turned to the guys remaining at the table, who were staring at me as though trying to figure out whether or not to laugh.
Al: What? She called me a lame-o. So the bible says what I did was okay: you know, an eye for an
eye and all that. And if God says it’s okay, then it’s okay by me.
There was a moment more of confused contemplation, and the lot of them collectively lost their shit. The one guy was in tears, telling me how awesome that was. Apparently, this girl comes to a lot of their parties, and while all these young fellows would like to take her to bed, they can’t stand her company either before or after. Evidently my Vapid-Whore-Dar was working perfectly that night, and for once the right person got it.
By this time I was starting to get antsy; this party was doing nothing for my love life aside from attracting a horde of little Tucker Max wannabes who followed me around wanting to hear me say funny stuff. The Captain joined me in the kitchen with yet another drink, which I damn near passed up due to the amount I’d consumed already that night (but I’ll never admit to that now).
Cap: Having fun?
Al: Man, I’m telling you, never do this to me again. When the only fun I get out of a night is verbally
trouncing a teenage girl I just don’t go home feeling fulfilled, you know? I mean, it’s kind of like stealing Halloween candy from small children: entertaining for a while, but it gets too easy really fast.
Cap: Well, you have to admit it hasn’t been that bad. Scenery was good, you got to be a bastard, everyone goes home happy. You might still even pick up if you tried.
I didn’t know it at the time, but the Captain was baiting me again.
Al: Pick up? PICK UP? YOU ASSHOLE. It’s not enough that every girl in here looks like a
stretched out slutty piece of shit. It’s not enough that they’re all going to spend their lives
alternating between an honest night’s work on their backs with their feet in the air, and heading to the clinic for pap smears and free condom stockups. Pick up?? I mean, come on: EVERY GIRL IN HERE LOOKS LIKE SHE ALREADY SUCKS DICK FOR A LIVING!!!
I should mention that when I’m drunk I have difficulty gauging the volume of my voice. At the end of this exchange, I had the full attention of every single person at that party. For the second time that night an utter silence fell on the room. You could hear hair growing in there. Ever the good wingman, the Captain threw out the defining line of the night:
Cap: Well, when you’re right, you’re right.
When the Captain and I left shortly thereafter, it was not precisely by choice. That is to say, the girls at the party had collectively gone to him while I was in the can and asked that he please remove his asshole friend from the premises because I was ruining their good time. The only two that didn’t seem to have a problem with me staying were Leetha and “Brooke”, the girl that owned the house. They both wanted us to stay, as did my new-found fan club, but I was headed swiftly out of Amusingly Assholish Al towards Pass Out Randomly Al, so we opted to head out. Though I never got to play, Brooke expressly told me that I should be showing up to her next party, so I guess I didn’t manage to alienate every single woman there.
On our way out I asked the Captain about his conversation with the Sinister Six and their cronies.
Cap: Seriously man, the final tally excluding Leetha and Brooke was a unanimous decision that you are
like the anti-Dr. Phil. You went out of your way to ruin those people, especially that one girl, with the lazy eye or whatever.
Al: Whatever, she probably just went home to write angsty poetry on a forty-five degree angle in her
diary. Besides, this whole fucking thing is your fault. You knew damn well what was going to
happen if you invited me to this thing without my foreknowledge of what it was going to be about.
Cap: Yep. Same thing as what happens when you invite Genghis Khan over for tea. Or Hitler to a Bar
Mitzfah.
Al: Come on, I’m not that bad.
Cap: All I can say is God help the woman that winds up settling for you. She’ll be a better man than I.
Al: (awkward silence)
Cap: (awkward silence)
Fin.
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