tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85169942293162324532011-04-21T18:40:41.546-07:00i'm so horny. that's okay; my will is goodthe ragehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426199576436896292noreply@blogger.comBlogger31100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8516994229316232453.post-83974073409525089962007-05-03T08:07:00.000-07:002007-05-04T18:16:41.352-07:00This wasn't my idea. The sun came out more or less as we were leaving, and really, we should have left earlier, because I got dropped off at the Courtyard Marriott to teach a four-hour class three minutes past the hour. I'm sure my class thought I was on drugs, and I ended up spending half my earnings for the lecture on a cab home.<br /><br />I was reluctant to give up a clean 60 for this trip, thinking it unreasonable that one of my hard-earned Jacksons go toward someone else's liquor and food budget. This apprehension turned out to be pessimistic. Our awesome group (D, E, L and I) completely ignored the other guests and simply ate from every meal they cooked and drank from every drink they bought. Then we left without cleaning anything. Perfect!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8516994229316232453-8397407340952508996?l=conversationengage.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>the ragehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426199576436896292noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8516994229316232453.post-79382588778708718692007-04-14T14:49:00.000-07:002007-04-14T14:52:34.534-07:00Why didn't I stay with Alaska? Why??? There was all a man could ask for over there, including baked ziti.<br /><br />From now on, when I start singing La Marseillaise, please don't let me have any more drinks.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8516994229316232453-7938258877870871869?l=conversationengage.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>the ragehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426199576436896292noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8516994229316232453.post-23652364472970827722007-04-03T14:23:00.000-07:002007-04-03T20:54:48.235-07:00This 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The police may have shown up at some point, whereupon I went home and ate a whole pound of shrimp.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8516994229316232453-2365236447297082772?l=conversationengage.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>the ragehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09426199576436896292noreply@blogger.com0