2004-06-23 - 11:26 a.m.
The �burbs are killing me. I went to an office happy hour, against my better judgment. I made the mistake of attending one once before, and the semi-permanent glaze that formed over my eyes is just now melting. It was like being at a bar with a bunch of washcloths. They weren�t even interesting enough to be mildewed washcloths, or sunny fresh smelling ones. If you're anti-washcloth, think of some other inanimate object that is inherently boring.
What do you get with 10 people around a table and plenty of booze? With my friends you get good conversation, some puking, and somebody�s exposed tits (probably Pencopal�s). With these work bots, you get vacant stares and the occasional lame comment. Why did I go, you may ask. Because the drinks were 50 cents yo, and I had a few hours to kill.
So I�m following the directions, driving more and more into the sticks. After I pass two cornfields and a horse farm, I start to wonder, will there be any black people within a 10-mile vicinity of this bar? Never judge a cornfield by its ears. The first person I see, as I�m parking my car, is a black man. Hip hop hooray. I would�ve settled for an Asian; better yet, a Native American. Just a little diversity, that�s all I need. Turns out the guy parking his Explorer is this guy I went to college with. Derek. Or Dennis; doesn�t matter, he was on the basketball team, therefore, he is a nonentity. I stare at him for a minute and he�s smirking at me like, yeah, you know me baby, I used to play basketball. Then it clicks. He�s the asshole who gave the same speech as the other basketball player assholes. These dumb fucks all shared the same speech and thought no one would figure it out. Brilliant.
So I walk in and it�s like those pussy corrals we all went to in college. This bar is a fucking meatstick factory. It�s huge, like a warehouse showcase for suburban hoes. All dressed up with no place to go, these bitches. I wished I hadn't wasted a wearing of my melon jeans, you know, the ones that make my ass look like two round cantaloupes. That's too big, maybe pomegranates? Smallish honeydews? At any rate, I'm destined to be approached by the most degenerate creature in the building, because there�s a sign on my forehead that says, �Will be nice to scumbags, though other girls would laugh at you.� It�s a problem.
Luckily one chick brings a not-from-work friend, with whom I totally hit it off�most likely because he has a penis. It�s the vaginas that don�t like me too much. He said he wasn�t surprised to hear that girls hate me, because I have a certain swagger. Yeehaw motherfucker, that's the Pencopal Swagger, glad you noticed, I wanted to say.
So he and I are getting drunk, talking, yukking it up. There�s a television over my shoulder and he looks at it. His face turns grim, and he says, �That makes me so FUCKING angry!�
�I know, can you believe they beheaded another person?� I reply. I immediately launch into my diatribe about those awful al Qaeda fuckers, and how we can�t turn into animals like them, yadda yadda blah blah blah. He�s looking at me strangely so I start to trail off.
�No, you�re right, that�s totally fucked up," he says. "But I was looking at the score from last night�s game.�
Pencopal: -1
The Gods: 3000
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