Saturday, October 21, 2006


I hope New York just vomited a little when it realized the World Series starts today.

* * *

I was out last night with a friend and one of her friends, and didn't really hit it off with her (this friend of a friend), but it wasn't awkward or dreadful or anything. Anyway, at bar time, some douche in a black t-shirt asked her what time it really was, she laughed at the novelt of this statement, and wound up going home with this guy and his friend with a hipster mullet.

What's the etiquette here? He just started talking to her when I had been at the bar right next to her. First off, when you don't acknowledge the other person in the party when you're clearly meaning to hit on someone, you are a douche. When you are being hit on by a black t-shirt wearing douche who thinks saying "you know" is hilarious (at least he laughed every time he said it), and you don't even superficially include the person you're platonically at the bar with in the conversation, you're both transparent and probably a little bit slutty. Seriously: had I been superficially included in this obvious-as-a-train-tunnel conversation, I would have gotten bored and sauntered off to watch fuckin' Quadorophenia on the big screen elsewhere. What a terrible movie. That's not my problem, though.

My problem is that I just realized that if I had bone-thin arms and a black t-shirt, as well as a career I found on Monsterjobs, a coke problem, and a basic inability to string multisyllabic words together, I would be neck deep in pussy. Those are actually what Jesus's last words were, right after that "Forsaken me" bullshit.


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