This, the hallowed weekend of dead Presidents added a day. A 103 degree fever added a second. Thus my four-day weekend. Which preceeds another four-day weekend coming up. This week, I work one day. (I inherited my mom's work ethic. Lazy teachers! PS: I'm kidding. Not about my mom's work ethic but about teachers being lazy as a whole.)
The weekend started with Wangs and beer at Allen's 19th 30th Birthday... or something of the sorts. It was crazy fun. Any night with Allen is likely to a) include a trip to the 'lode, (Motherlode that is), b) trollin' at Mickey's and c) waking up with some strange infection -- thus the 103 degree fever. He wrangeled together work buds -- many of whom I work with at one point -- at Big Wangs. Despite it's name not very gay. Although we tried to spice it up a bit. From Wangs we headed West with hopes of finding fame and fortune, or at least a trick with a job and a buss pass. JACKPOT!
We hit Motherlode, the Abbey and ended up at Mickey's. Despite how much the WeHooligans like to trash the place, Mickey's is always fun. At least folks dance. And smile. Is smiling illegal at the Abbey? Or is everyone just pissed about plopping done $20 for an orangish martini with less alcohol than a shot of Listerine?
At 4:00 AM, when my contacts called their union and went on strike, I decided to head home.
To be awakened at 9:00 AM by the roomies. We made breakfast. I had waffle duty, mostly because I believe that waffles are responsible for everything that is good in the world. For example, if the starving children of Africa has waffles, they wouldn't be starving anymore. Granted, if they had some balogna they wouldn't be starving either, but waffles are always better than balogna.
After loafing around for most of the day, minus a trip to the gym and the dive shop, I prepared for a party at the home of a divebuddy. Being that all my divebuddy's sans one are breeders, getting ready didn't involve much. Jeans, most likely clean. Check. Sweatshirt. Check. Baseball cap. Check.
The party was moderately quiet but nice. GREAT food. Fun company. And a fat chick claiming to be an ambassador to the gays. Here's the deal. To be a "fag hag" or "fruit fly" or other tragic name for straight girls that use gays for 98% of their social life, the gays have to enjoy being around you. It's like a nickname. You can't give yourself a nickname, you earn it by doing something embarrassing. The same is true for hagdom. You can not be a self-proclaimed hag. You must be chosen by a gay. I can't imagine any gay would ever choose this girl. If one did, as G-d as my witness, I am no longer pro-choice.Sunday I headed down to the brothers house to have my ass kicked in H-O-R-S-E twice by my 8 year-old nephew. Of course, I intentionally threw both games to boost his ego and make up for the fact that I am only his uncle and not a super-cool dad. He'll have to face that reality some day and hopefully his sham victories will soften the blow. (I also was further humilated by having my lack of basketball prowess called out by an illiterate 11 year-old. )
Monday involved a trip to Disneyland that began with the onset of the symptoms. Wouldn't that be a cool ABC one-hour drama? Something about some virus circling the globe. It starts revealing itself in confusing and secret symptoms. Nothing too much to report from Disney besides the abundance of lesbians -- many wearing the popular "gay days" red shirts. Except it wasn't gay days and won't be for months. Are lesbians really that far out of the loops.
And then comes Tuesday... bed ridden. Sick as a dog. And still mustered it all together for my reality show debut... More to come.
PS: Can I get in trouble for too many photos of fat people? Or, a more philosphocial question, can you have too many photos of fat people?
2 comments:
Ugh. As the official representative of, what, 33% of your readers? 20%? ... I vote for no more pictures of fat people.
I don't remember sending you that picture of my last roommate?
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