Friday night was so fantastic that I wanted it to end just I could talk about it. What made the night so enthralling was that it was completely unexpected. It was the equivalent of finding a twenty in an old pair of pants. It was tantamount to getting a bird pregnant, contemplating suicide, wickedly staring at a flight of stairs and gauging whether or not you had it in you to push her, then accepting that you were going to raise a hate baby, and right before you pawned your Xbox you find out that she wasn’t pregnant – she just didn’t want you dumping her. What’s fucked up is that the ruse, somehow, made her more appealing. She faked a pregnancy to be with me. She spent the ten dollars on a test, hand-wrote a plus sign, and named the fake baby; that is worth a breakup pardon, no? God, I miss Heidi.
I was in such a funk that I called my mom 3 to 4 times a day to make sure Delonte West wasn’t banging her. I was in my underwear, guzzling my 6th beer, and watching Date Night with Steve Carrell and Tina Fey. By the by, that movie sucked, which is why the sudden Pinky intrusion was such a blessing. I heard rocks hitting my gold-plated condo balcony window so I popped my head out to see the 6’4 Canadian. He must have a bit of Palestinian in him because he kept throwing rocks at me even though I was already aware of his presence.
He and his girlfriend, Loosey, got in a serious argument over their Halloween costumes. She wanted to dress up in a freakishly convincing guy costume and have Pinky dress up normally and hit up a random gay bar. She would be a guy for Halloween and when they made out at the random gay bar Pinky would be a gay guy for Halloween. Shockingly he wasn’t against that idea because it was an affront to his heterosexuality; he was against it because he wanted to go as a bee. That way whenever someone asked what he was he could say “Imma bee, Imma bee, Imma Imma Imma bee.”
He arrived at my place after his first two choices proved busy. I was a bit pissed that I was that far down the list, and he told me I was his safe school. He knew I would be free, so he took a gamble on Harvard and Morehouse, or our Jewish buddy Akiva and our black pal Hollywood. Failing to gain acceptance, he settled on the community college – me.
We walked into my bedroom so I could get dressed, and Pinky grabbed my white pants so he could have a better vantage while making fun of them. Normally I can take constructive criticism, and calling my white pants “the Lance Bass of pants” was constructive. But coming from a guy wearing capris it seemed inconsistent… Capris! So I threw on the white pants and a white tee in an effort to differentiate myself from the crowd. In retrospect it was a bad idea because I actually did differentiate myself.
As we waited for a cab to take us to the bar we did not smoke any pot. We both have big-boy jobs now, which do not test, even though we would pass. So we had to change our ways and find Jesus. Again, I stress that we did not spend an hour smoking a blunt neither of us rolled while not laughing at the Will and Grace box-set I do not own.
Ok, I do own the Will and Grace box-set and we did watch it while Pinky was creeping on Facebook. He then landed on my page and had a conniption.
I recently changed my Facebook relationship status to “It’s Complicated” with a friend as a joke. Pinky couldn’t grasp the joke aspect of our ruse. She’s fit; just bag her, guy – he would scream at me. Then he told me that Michigan was lucky he was in a loving relationship – otherwise he would clean house, sexually, and in doing so, somehow teach me a lesson. I was nearing the point of exasperation with him, so I told him that the fake relationship bird was a buddy and more importantly she used to be a heifer. And Muaz does not fuck with rehabilitated fatties. No matter how thin she gets, she will always be fat on the inside; and reverting back to her fatty ways would be an easy transition. She already has the chubby girl wardrobe, facilitating the thin to fat de-evolution.
“Then let me text Jenny and tell her you have a ‘fake’ relationship.”
“No, cause that bitch’ll believe you.”
And what did Pinky do? Do I really have to ask you? He texted Jenny, the skeet I was crushing, and told her to “look at the joke on Muaz’s Facebook page.” Jenny is a bit unstable, a bit of a drunk, and works at Hooters – which makes her one hell of a catch for a fuck like me. We had a good thing; we would hang out on occasion, have relations, shake hands, and go our separate ways. I made it very clear that I did not want a girlfriend – when the reality was that I didn’t was her as my girlfriend. But everything Pinky touches turns to mold and his black cloud of friendship fucked up my mindfucked fuck buddy.
We decided that the cab was a bad idea and hit the bar in Rosicky’s Lexus. I was too not high to drive anywhere so we stopped at the first bar we laid our blurry eyes on, a townie inn called The Aspen. If you think my white pants were a fail at my place just picture what the Wrangler-sporting crowd at The Aspen thought. So we drank in a dark booth by ourselves and tried to figure out how The Office would write Michael Scott (Steve Carrell) off in his final season. We were laughing at everything, until the following idea, which was so good that we laugh-cried. The Office writers should kill off Michael Scott in an epic, Godfather I, Sonny Corleone death-scene-inspired farewell. They would have Idris Elba return, but not as his The Office character, but as Stringer Bell from The Wire to kill Michael Scott. Then, next season would be an exhilarating dramedy as Dwight and Jim join forces to find Stringer Bell and gain vengeance for their fallen leader; meanwhile the office in The Office will have to maintain their mediocre performance so the authorities are not tipped off to Jim and Dwight’s vigilante pursuit. I am serious.
Pinky woke me up on Saturday morning by rolling around on my bed in a hysterical fit of laughter. Once I grabbed the cig out of his hands I asked him what the fuck was so funny. He told me to go check my Facebook inbox.
“How the fuck did you log onto my Facebook?”
“We can talk about that later, ‘password19,’ just go check.”
I slowly walked to my computer, kind of prepared, but I was still bowled over by what I read. I would like to throw a disclaimer here. The following message is 100% legitimate. I lie a lot, and I make James Frey look like a stenographer with my level of creative license, but this message has not been altered at all.
I erupted in laughter, falling onto the floor next to the pile of giggles known as Pinky. As soon as he captured his breath he called Loosey and before she could start yelling at him he enlightened her to the destruction of my sex life. And I could hear her laughing, ignoring her ill will towards Pinky and laughing at my impending blue balls. She requested to speak to me, not to console, but to crush. She had more jokes than Pinky did. As I hung up the phone Pinky embraced me, thanking me. According to Pinky, the destruction of my love life actually salvaged his. Somehow my pain facilitated their reconciliation. As he began to put his shoes on I asked him if what just happened actually happened. And his response-
“Yeah, and I did it.”
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