My brothers and I don’t get invited to many parties. We’re not sure why, but we have it narrowed down to two possible reasons:
1. The people we know don’t have parties.
Or
2. We smell.
Given the absence of party-going from our normal weekly itinerary, Matt and I were shocked when we were able to worm our way into a half-assed invite to a nearby house party.
We arrived to find a bunch of well-dressed post-college types standing around in a house too nice to produce any real fun. Its wood floors and granite countertops stared at me wide-eyed, whispering phrases like, “Help me, it’s so boring here,” and, “Yes I know it’s weird that an inanimate object can speak.” I should have heeded their warnings.
Our friend on the scene, Jens, introduced us to the host…who quickly introduced us to her boyfriend. It became a trend.
“Hi, I’m Courtney…
…and this is my boyfriend.”
Even the unattractive ones had boyfriends. And many of them were at the party. Which is all well and good. People have
Our early reconnaissance left us nonplussed with the direction of the party. Hoping for new stimuli, we wandered outside to find a singer-songwriter halfheartedly plugging his way through a few tunes. And then, a glimmer of hope. As we stood at the bottom of the stairs, drinking Jens-provided beers, we caught sight of a wondrous creature. Brown hair, a thin waist, a great red dress. Our libidos gathered in the blocks, waiting for the gun. We barely noticed the man-boy following behind her, Brooks Brothers polo shirt tucked into his khaki shorts. No way he’s involved, we thought. And then he slipped his arm around her.
Turning on us, the starter demonstrated his disdain for the blanks usually provided to track-and-field workers, and shot our libidos dead in their blocks.
Disappointed, we trudged back inside, hoping to find something to amuse us.
Thankfully, we were not made to wait long. She walked in wearing a summer dress that showed off everything she had going for her—long legs…tan skin…the capability to, one day, nourish an infant while keeping its teeth far from her precious sternum. Unfortunately, she was off limits to me. This girl and I had tangled before. I was not the victor. Either time.
The short version is this:
Last summer, I approached the girl in question in a Kansas City bar. She wasted no time in shooting me down in particularly vicious fashion. After learning my name, she turned to a newly-arrived friend in order to ignore me for a full 90 seconds before I took the hint and walked away. Later that same year, I approached her in a different bar. New day, similar results: she told me she was a lesbian.
Thus, I am not a fan.
When she arrived, the girl in question, who I shall call Seaward, was carrying a brown paper bag with a bottle of alcohol inside. She put it down on the kitchen counter in order to greet some friends. A plan began to formulate in my head.
When Seaward had her back turned, I snatched her bag-covered bottle, carried it a few feet, and hid it in a larger bag. Round One: Shirley. Matt and Jens had observed the initial skirmish; the three of us took up positions on one side of the kitchen in order to watch what unfolded. Eventually, Seaward noticed that her contribution to the party had disappeared. She began a surreptitious search. My hiding place had been a shaky one so her efforts were soon rewarded. With visible glee, she plucked her bottle out of its brown paper cave, set it on the counter and went in search of cups and ice. She quickly returned with the former, but the latter proved a daunting quarry. Finally, she found what she was looking for and retired to a nearby pantry, where the ice was resting comfortably in a cooler.
I took note of her absence and, while her back was turned, swiped her bottle again. With all escape routes blocked and the clock ticking, I lurched into the guest bathroom that was beside the kitchen, where I found a suitable resting place–next to the soap on the sink. I darted out of the bathroom just in time to watch a bewildered look darken Seaward’s face. Her head swiveled left and right, like a really attractive android with a failed internal computer. Disgusted, she put down the two cups of ice and began another search for her beloved alcohol.
“Has anyone seen my bottle of Skyy Vodka? It was right here. But now it’s gone.”
Word of the lost vodka traveled quickly. Kitchen cupboards were opened, the refrigerator was scoured. Someone even opened the oven. A girl said, “What kind of person would just take a bottle of vodka?” I resisted the temptation to say, “A very immature one, that’s who.”
After a few minutes’ search, the hounds were called off and a suitable replacement was found. The two cups were filled with imposter liquid, Seaward returned to her group next to the breakfast area, and her conversation continued. But the Skyy wasn’t far from her mind. Every so often, she cast sidelong glances around the house, her brain wondering about the fate of her blue bottle.
I had observed the proceedings of the search party from a vantage point across the kitchen from the bathroom where I had stashed the bottle. With a new plan in mind, I slipped through the kitchen…to find the door to the bathroom closed. Someone was inside. Dammit. Surely he or she would see the bottle and bring it out. No one’s that unobservant.
Incorrect. A guy stumbled out, wide-eyed and drunk, but sans blue bottle. I motioned to my brother and we leapt inside, immediately spotting the object of our pursuit. We didn’t have long to execute our plan—the group in the kitchen would surely notice if the two six-foot-seven-plus guys stayed in the bathroom long. Our objective: to figure out if there was a way we could spirit the bottle out of the house without anyone noticing. I undid my belt buckle, stuffed the Skyy into the back of my pants, flopped my T-shirt over it, and turned around for Matt’s appraisal. He nodded his approval and we hurriedly planned our route out of the house.
We opened the bathroom door and found no accusatory looks waiting for us. Emboldened, we hiked past Seaward and Co., gathered Jens and then walked brazenly out the front door and into the night, leaving the terrible party behind.
Our level of glee was high. Sure, it was a small victory. But it was a victory nonetheless. It would be an exaggeration to say that I regained some of my dignity. That ship sailed when I first hid her bottle like a third-grader. The victory wasn’t really over her, anyway. Our small victory came at the expense of boredom. We injected fun into the party. Sure, we were the only ones who had it, but 3 x fun is always greater than 0 x fun. (3*fun > 0*fun.) Mission accomplished.
Unfortunately, the opportunity we missed didn’t occur to us until we had sped off.
We should have peed in the bottle and put it back. Exponential-worthy, to be sure.
It’s remarkable that we don’t get invited to more parties.
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thank you for something far more interesting to read on the crapper than the usual. peeing into vodka rarely works as vodka is clear and urine is … well, not. peeing into tequila always seems to work.
As someone who also does not get invited to parties (though that may have much to do with my geographical location and related population size), I can safely say that creating fun especially at the expense of others is a necessary evil in such situations. I commend you on your creativity and relentlessness in this pursuit.
Skyy vodka? When I first started drinking, I was in love with Skyy. But after drinking Absolut, Kettle One, Stoli, Ciroq and of course Grey Goose, I find Skyy to be second rate.
But, if it gets your drunk, then it serves its purpose.
man my tweets are awesome
hs any1 worn a “golden fleece Brooks Brothers” polo & not = HUGE jagweed? I say NO (fd:I wear mine bi-wkly)
Paul: 3 * fun is not always greater that 0 * fun.
Since you were not having fun to begin with, the fun would obvioulsy have a negative quantity. Therefore, 3 * fun would acutally be LESS THAN 0 * fun.
Sorry to rain on yor parade.
lol
You do know that George Costanza pulled this same stunt, right? (Only it was a clock instead of vodka.)
“Seaward” – Love it!