Thursday, January 29, 2009
Man, I have bad luck. Not the I-was-born-with-spinabifida-so-bad-I-can’t-tie-my-shoes kind of luck and not the my-father-was-an-abusive-alcoholic-and-I-saw-him-sodomizing-kittens-when-I-was-four-years-old kind of luck either, but bad luck nonetheless.
A month ago Kim asked me to go to a concert with her and her two friends, neither of which I have met. I agreed as I have encouraged her to go out with her friends and now that she was heeding my advice, I figured part of my obligation was to be willing to meet some of these new friends.
Sure, I’ll go to the concert. Who is playing?
Styxx, you mean the pretend rockers from the eighties that I couldn’t stand even when they were popular back then? The band whose idea of hard rock is Mr. Roboto?
Great. Can’t wait. Say honey, where’s the Drano. I’m feeling thirsty suddenly.
This isn’t so bad. I’d rather pluck my eyelashes out one by one with a dirty set of vise grips, but not too bad. I haven’t been out in a long time and just getting out for some drinks even with what will hopefully be a brief concert in between drinking sessions might just still be fun somehow. I have resigned myself to a good time. All is fine right?
Last night my buddy emails. He recently built a bar in his basement. He’s purchasing the UFC. Not A UFC. THE UFC with BJ Penn vs. Georges St. Pierre as the main event. This would be the grand opening to the public of this bar. Cigars, free beer, free fights, lots of cussing and shit-giving by a male only crowd excited with bloodlust. No bitches to worry about wrecking things.
“Ewww, is that a cigar? It stinks.”
So does your pussy, but you don’t hear me complaining.”
It would be one of those nights for the ages. I would wake up hungover with a sore belly from laughing and a sore throat from talking too loud all night. Alas, I gave my word. I am a man of my word. I shall go meet the wife’s friends who I’m sure are fine folks. I shall clap at the appropriate denouements between renditions of “Grand Illusion” and “Come Sail Away” that have simply not withstood the test of time. I will give an obligatory Wooooo! every so often to make it seem like I’m not pooping the party. And I will not think of my friends, at Jeff’s inaugural fight night, laughing, toasting, telling tall tales, and laughing some more. And I’m sure they won’t think of me either. If that last line sounded like I’m jealous. Yeah, well I am.
I have bad luck.