This weekend I attended a very unusual party at an estate roughly one hour from my home with my good friends B and T. There was a band playing on the patio, and the guests stood inside the dry swimming pool while lasers darted over them.
Costumed performers juggled fire around the pool, and a mysterious, scantily clad woman was dancing with a glow-in-the-dark hula hoop. I tried to get onto the roof with the declared intent of removing her brassiere but was thwarted somewhere on the third floor.
T and I were the only ones drunk. We carried our Steel Reserve 40 oz beverages with pride. We danced feverishly to the beat on the moonlit concrete.
I also defeated nearly everybody at table tennis, despite the fact that I have the hand-eye coordination of a sea sponge. Then I ventured over to the billiard room. There I met three young ladies, whom I dubbed Sweater, Girl, and Medallion, listed from shortest to tallest.
Girl decided she had to sow buttons onto my hipster t-shirt. We found neither needle, thread, nor a shred of privacy in the house, nor shelter from the eyes of jealous men.
The police may have shown up at some point, whereupon I went home and ate a whole pound of shrimp.
About Me
- the rage
- I work as a night shift guard at the local reservoir. At least once a month, the neighborhood children sneak past the barbed wire with sacks of saccharin, bent on contaminating our bland, grown-up world with their Kool-Aids and Sunny-D's and Crystal Lites. And I admit I die a little inside when I rope them up in my flatbed Chevy and take them back to the orphanage, but it's my job, and it's what mother would have wanted.
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